First Impressions and Preconceived Notions
by BrilliantInconvenience
Summary: A/U: Medically brilliant, John Watson is estranged from many and when he is honorably discharged from the Army, he is left despondent and alone. Following the initial tract of the re-imagined Sherlock Holmes, this tale takes a turn when it seems that Sherlock is not the man most sought after by the elusive and terrifying James Moriarty. JWxSH
1. Chapter 1

It all started when he was four. His mother's light coughing, something attributed to the allergy season, had in fact been pneumonia and he had declared this to be the case long before the doctor had stopped guessing it was the pollen. At age six he had urged his grandfather to seek medical attention because, the child patiently explained, the bouts of paranoia he had begun experiencing were very obviously early signs of dementia; his parents were only just surprised when this turned out to be true. At nine they removed him from public schools after he had diagnosed his teacher with cancer due to the exact shape of the bags beneath her eyes and the smell of her breath. Young John Watson had, at this point, begun to make the other children quite uncomfortable. His parents, unfortunately of the "barely scraping by" class, were unable to send him to a private school and so the task of educating young John fell upon his mother and father. He was surprisingly receptive to their lessons and, by the age of fifteen, he had completed all of the required courses to graduate high school. He flew through his classes like a summer breeze and devoured anything even remotely medical.

Graduating high school had been, to the young boy, an unnecessary thing made all the more unnecessary by his parent's insistence on a small ceremony. It was comprised entirely of their cheering, photography courtesy of his mother, and a home-cooked meal so lavish he had wondered how they could afford it on their salaries. Still, he said nothing and accepted it all with a gentle smile and eyes which spoke heavily of his growing world weariness.

Making it into the University of Oxford had been the easy part; tests were passed with scores that mystified the entirety of the grading staff and brought up brief and heated discussions of cheating. After all, there had never before been a set of perfect scores and a better written essay in the entirety of their accepted applications. Though they had offered him numerous scholarships it wasn't quite enough. Still too young to take his own job, both his mother and father took on second jobs until John was seventeen when he demanded they take a break and proceeded to take on two jobs of his own. Working full time between two jobs and going to school as full time as he was able, it took John nearly twelve years before he had graduated with a masters in biochemistry and his doctorate in medicine. By this point he had quit both of his jobs in favor of interning with three different medical practices and, after three particularly moving dissertations on the human body, received multiple grants from multiple sources. These included two research facilities, one of which was tied very openly to the government. Shortly after graduating, however, he made a choice that surprised not only his parents as well as the staff at Oxford, but the entire prestigious world of medicine.

John Hamish Watson joined the Army.

He completed not one, but two full tours in Afghanistan and had been on his way to completing the third when, surprise upon surprise, he was wounded. Shot, to be exact, in the heart. THROUGH the heart. But that was not what they saw when they dug out the bullet. Not what they witnessed when they were stitching him back together.

The doctors had said it was a miracle; something about a ricochet and how he shouldn't have survived, how he must have had a guardian angel. In the end, he had returned home, a wad of ugly scar tissue and a psychosomatic limp and shake tagging along for the excruciating journey. It wasn't until he had stood, alone and despondent and decked out in his fatigues with his bags at his feet for over two hours, that he realized things had changed while he was gone; not once had he ever been forgotten at the airport. Returning to his home brought him the grim discovery that both of his parents had passed in a horrific car accident and that Harry was officially an alcoholic. For all of this to happen within the span of four months was shocking, but having the knowledge that his sister, that Harry, had both neglected to send SOME sort of notice to him of the incidents at home and had also returned to the bottle left him feeling little else beyond cold.

Very, very cold.

He had, under the consistent and persistent guidance of some old Army pals, sought out a psychiatrist. Alissa was gentle with him, doing what she could to coax him from the coldness that he now found himself in. He could do little more than take what advice she gave, partly for himself but mostly for the psychiatrist. The woman was trying so very hard to help him and it would have been terribly rude to ignore everything she suggested.

He bought his laptop, a simple thing that fulfilled his needs; a writing program and access to the Internet. Though he failed to see what good this could do for his various psychoses he accepted her advice and had the good sense not to inform her that she was pregnant. Complaining about the person who put you in such a predicament suggested she would not be happy to learn of such ties now existing within her womb. She had another several weeks before she even began to see the signs of it anyhow and, really, was it is his job to tell people the things they didn't always ask for?

Laden down now as he was with a piece of technology he hadn't really thought he needed and advice he didn't believe would help, he started to write. And by "write" he mostly meant typing the letter "z" until his computer locked up. He would attempt drabbles, of course. Little blurbs and short flashes from his tours. He remembered everything. Every life he saved. Every life he ended. He tried reporting the incidents, sharing his memories with no emphasis, no sugarcoating of any kind. Kind of, he thought, like his medical textbooks, all facts and no embellishment. Reading through what he had written later, after he had let them stew and sit and fester in his mind, John had determined them a complete failure. They were…disgusting in a way he couldn't quite grasp. As though to simply report everything, to so coldly describe watching his comrades fight and die and the deaths he himself had caused… Yes. It was wrong, what he was writing. And his therapist's suggestion that he create a blog? Share his thoughts and experiences and words with the world? Insane, clearly.

And so he stopped. The shakes persevered, the limp continued, as painful and as fake as ever. More than once he reflected on the humor of it all, the limp and his shakes and his growing inability to sleep. The nightmares. The limp, that was the real punch line in the joke of his life; he hadn't even been injured in the leg. Neither a sprain nor a break had taken place and yet it felt as though his bones had been shattered, his kneecap wrenched and broken and twisted about. He hurt, yes. Everything hurt; his heart, his body, his soul. Perhaps, he found himself considering on more than a daily basis, his knee was symbolically representing the entirety of his pain. Allowing his mental anguish an escape his conscious mind was unable to offer. This option was as likely as any other; considering his two and a half psychology classes, he was as comfortable with his own self-diagnosis it as any other explanation shoved down his throat.

OoOoOoO

Time continued to slip by, unnoticed by most and yet so utterly tangible to Doctor Watson. His therapist began to show, her pregnancy at first only a gentle curve to the belly, a light fullness to the breast, that even she could not avoid seeing. He wondered, for a brief period of time, what she would do with the baby. But as their sessions continued and she grew larger and rounder he could not help but grow fonder, knowing that she had chosen to keep the life within her alive. He had, in his internment, discovered the wonders of life. Of the womb and the tiny creatures which, within one, might grow. Children became a new sort of wonder for him. Fascinating, all of them; they moved with a frenetic sort of energy that was wholly exquisite and unique to those who had yet to experience the sorrows of life. Watching them as they ran, screaming and laughing down the halls of grocery stores no longer irritated him. Rather, watching them brought to him a sense of calm and of ease. Watching them brought the realization that life could and would continue on, new waves of generational creations that would one day take his own place. It was one of the few things that could now bring a smile to his face.

And it was during one of these moments of self-reflection, watching with a sad sort of half smile as a boy who was going to develop the symptoms of epilepsy within a year or so (the irregular dilation of the eyes), that he was approached by someone he had not expected to see.

"John…? John WATSON, is that YOU?" John, who had until that very moment, been staring down at his clasped palms, seated on one of three park benches in his favorite park, jerked his head up in surprise. He had been enjoying the sunshine, surprised by it, actually, considering that the day had begun as overcast. The rain was something John very much found he enjoyed. Rain, snow, sunshine…yet again, more proof that the world around them would continue on, regardless of himself. Most days he ended up here, at the park. He had yet to find himself any sort of employment, despite the gentle and consistent encouragement of his therapist who assured him that finding something to do with his life would bring some sort of meaning back into it. He knew she was right, and yet, he had not yet brought himself around to check with the local clinics and offices for any sort of openings despite the fact that his license remained active.

"Stamford? Mike Stamford, good lord I certainly didn't expect to see you here!" John smiled, eyes flicking over his friend's worn yet jolly features, catching more than a few traces of alcoholism and chain smoking and heart disease in his old friend's ruddy nose and heavy breathing. It hurt to see that in him, the man who had fought so hard and done so much for his country, but there was little he could do and even less he could say. The heart disease, judging from his friend's constant glancing at his watch (time for medication), was already well known and bringing it up would likely just irritate him. Pushing all of this aside, John stood and wrapped a companionable arm around his friend, delighted simply to see a familiar face. As they pulled apart John winced, frustrated as the phantom pain in his knee spiked through his leg. Mike, catching his discomfort, glanced to where John had set his cane and that look, that softening of the eyes and the flash of pity was enough to send John back behind his well-stocked internal blockade. A moment of awkward silence passed and then they were both sitting on the bench, side to side and sharing a view of the impromptu soccer game that had just coalesced on the empty field before them.

"So…been a while, eh John? You just got back, right?" John nodded, mouth pressed against his joined hands in front of him.

"Yeah…couple of months now…"

"Hard adjusting, huh?" Again that sympathy and John didn't need to glance over to see Mike watching him.

"Yeah a bit, but nothing too terrible. Just been a bit…rough. Not having a flat-mate and all. Rent and…" He trailed off with a shrug, hoping he had not given away too much about his personal life; if he could avoid prattling on about his persistent nightmares he would do just that. Mike said nothing for a moment as he produced a cigarette and began rummaging through his pockets for a light. Reaching into his own pocket for his own lighter felt familiar and, as he held the flickering flame to Mike's slightly crumpled cigarette, he was unaware of his smile.

"You always DID have a light." Mike murmured around his first pull of the toxic stick.

"Yeah. Just like old times…," John shrugged, slowly spinning the lighter around in his palm. "I just - I'm not the same man, Mike. I'm just not and it SURPRISED me, that's all." He shrugged again, wondering when it was that he had become so awkward. Again that curious silence descended between them, both men now watching the game.

"If it's not too uh…presumptuous of me… I think I might know someone who could use a flat-mate. He was looking for one a while back." Casual, John thought, gaze flicking to the side as he took in his friend's increased heart rate, visible in the light pulse at the side of his neck.

"Yeah? And who's that, then?"

"He's uh…a bit odd…but uh…I think it's better if I let you meet him in person. I think…I think you'll like him, though, John. You just gotta give him a bit of a chance, yeah?" John's eyes narrowed in a look that was wholly un-John before he sighed and shrugged. "Besides, I think you two will…" Mike trailed off, averting his gaze from the steadily growing intensity of John's. "I mean, you always had that thing and…he's got the thing, too, so… Look, it's just better if you meet him, okay?" John seemed to mull his friend's words over carefully, mentally chewing them through as to taste every syllable.

"Sure I mean… I'll meet him at least." Mike seemed to let go of a breath he'd been holding, simultaneously standing and flicking the bit of ash at the end of his cigarette.

"I'm heading to the hospital where he's supposed to be working right now." John's eyes narrowed once more, this time in thought. Hospital. Did that mean…doctor? Nurse? Orderly? Janitor? Security? So many different options. Mike didn't elaborate on why he was going to the hospital and somehow John understood that it was because he himself was already aware of Mike's ailment. A grim smile flickered across John's features; it just felt so…familiar. He supposed he'd scared many of his those in his platoon with his uncanny ability to determine their ailments before they even began to feel their aches and their pains. And, yes, they'd all been grateful. The war may have claimed many of their number but not a one fell to disease. Not a single member of his unit had any wounds left untreated and few lost limbs. Still, his…talents had not always been received well by those who preferred to remain ignorant or were under the belief that John was full of shit. Mike, John remembered fondly, had always listened. Never questioned him, though he'd never been entirely comfortable with John's capabilities; in the end, it was what had endeared him so to John.

Standing, John groped for his cane and released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I suppose I could come along with you, then. If it's not too much of a bother of course." He shrugged, gesturing lightly to his cane.

"No, no, don't worry about it!" Mike said, jovially clapping John on the back and pointedly ignoring his old comrade's visible wince. After stubbing the rest of his cigarette out in a trashcan ashtray just beside their bench, the duo were on their way to the hospital.

OoOoOoO

"St. Bart's, eh?" John huffed, eyes roving over the familiar structure as he waited for Mike to struggle free from the cab. The building held conflicting emotions for John; he'd interned here for a brief period of time before leaving because he had had numerous heated arguments with the head practitioner who had openly believed John to be a nutcase who didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He had, however, met numerous supporters, some of whom continued to write to him even after leaving. Their letters had often kept him afloat when the world grew dark. Still, the feeling of indecision continued to linger even as Mike paid the cabbie and began huffing and puffing his way to the building's entrance. Stamford paused when he reached the doors, ignoring the way they slid open and closed with every shift of his body.

"You comin', John? I'm already late for my appointment." With a heavy sigh that seemed to speak volumes John turned from the busy road and limped his way over to the door, leaning heavily on the cane as he followed his friend inside. Glancing around upon entry, John realized that very little had changed in the years between his last visit and today. That long counter directly ahead, maroon with white tops, for the gathering of information for both visitors and staff. A waiting room off to the right, gift shop off to the left, and elevators just beyond them. They'd added some new furniture, repainted the walls in a gentle tan and pulled up all the vinyl flooring, replacing it with red and white checked vinyl flooring that, combined with the new red of the counter and the off white furniture, left the lobby looking more like a diner than a hospital.

"Listen, I'd really like to be there when you meet him…do you think…?"

"Yeah, no worries. I'll wait for you to be done." Mike seemed to relax at this then motioned John forward, toward the elevators. John's eyebrows rose in mild surprise but he said nothing and followed; he felt vaguely honored to have been invited along to Mike's appointment and though he would sit in the waiting room, the invite retained its' overall sense of camaraderie. The ride up to the eighth floor was quiet but not in an oppressive way with neither man speaking as the tinny elevator music filled the small space. John allowed his mind to wander, simultaneously allowing Mike his privacy whilst pondering the possibilities for this flat-mate. They would have to find somewhere else to live, he thought while following Mike's steady pace with his own limping stutter down the hallway. They made it to the office and John immediately took a seat, wincing and huffing as he forced his knee and himself down into the closest chair. Mike wandered towards the receptionist and after a few murmured words was ushered through a door just beside the receptionist's bubble. A sigh oozed free from John's just parted lips and, feeling particularly exasperated for no particular reason at all, he thumped his head against the wall behind him. Closing his eyes, he leaned his walking stick against the chair between his legs and once again allowed his thoughts to wander towards the possibility of a flat-mate and far, far from the office. Far from the place where the doctors looked down on him like some throwaway, waste of-

No. No, now was not the time for that sort of self-reflection.

So. A flat-mate.

Sure, it was something he'd discussed very briefly with Alissa, who was now looking quite pregnant. Their last appointment had been just a few days prior and had gone as successfully as their past few meetings…meaning, of course, that very little had been accomplished.

"_John." Another sigh, arms crossed in what even John was aware as a sign of petulance._

"_You don't NEED to explain yourself, that's not what I'm asking. I just want you to think through it, to really CONSIDER it before you-"_

"_Look, okay, I don't NEED to CONSIDER anything." And yes, he was hating that childish tone in his voice but it all seemed to perfectly, beautifully simple and, for the first time since he had started seeing Alissa he was beginning to wonder how they might connect at all if she could not understand this._

"_I think you do, John."_

"_No, Alissa, I don't. Listen, okay? I don't need a flat-mate and I certainly don't WANT one."_

"_But if you'd just-"_

"_I think we're done here for today, alright?" The squeaking of his chair against the floor, the flurry of activity as John shrugged on his coat and left, ignoring the constant yet gentle pleas that he stop and turn around and talk this through._

No, Alissa had certainly not understood. And he supposed that Mike didn't really, either. In the end, not even John fully grasped his constantly warring desires to be alone and to find some sort of…friend. No, friend wasn't the right word. He wasn't even sure he was capable of having a friend. He just wanted someone to talk to, sometimes. Oh the secrets they would discover, the horrors they would unearth! The good doctor snorted, rolling his eyes behind closed lids at his own internal dialogue, all dramatic and dark and so not who he was. Still, what harm would it do? Seeing this possible flat-mate? Worst came to worst, he'd just…say no. Saying no was still an acceptable form of rejection, wasn't it? He hadn't been so far removed from society that-

"I know that look, John!" John blanched, reddening slightly as he came back down from his thoughts. He struggled briefly to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as his knee protested. He'd been sitting for far longer than he had expected to and his knee was aching in a way that felt all too real. Glancing at his watch John realized he'd been sitting in that chair for just under an hour. Not long for an appointment of any kind yet try telling that his knee.

"And what look might THAT be?" Mike chuckled as they exited the lobby, clapping him companionably on his shoulder.

"You're thinking too HARD about this, you know. When I tell you this guy would make a good flat-mate I mean that he would make a good flat-mate for YOU. I'd probably kill him or…more likely he'd probably kill me." Though the last bit was murmured it did not escape John's keen ears and quite suddenly he was balking, pulling away from his friend and taking a few solid steps back. Mike sighed and turned, battening down his hatches as he faced the rather flustered and now irritated John Watson.

"Look, John I was kidding! Mostly, anyway-"

"No, Mike, what was…What was THAT? I'm not entirely sure what was worse, saying he'd make a good flat-mate for ME, like I'm some…some-"

"Now you STOP right there, John!" The anger in John withered and died as he stared into Mike's contorted features; anger, hurt, and something else…disgust?

"You've always been like this! Look, I know some of the other guys…they didn't…they didn't TREAT you right back then, alright? I get it, but I never did! You KNOW I never did!" Instantly the guilt hit and John was wishing he could pull everything back because Mike was right. He'd always been a bit of a pariah in the Army; avoided and ignored and sneered at and talked about behind closed doors. But not Mike. Never Mike.

"Look, Mike I-"

"No, John just SHUT up and PAY ATTENTION." Red-faced and furious, there would be no stopping Mike now. "You know I would never say something to OFFEND you like that; I thought we were actually comrades not just some Army idiots thrown together out of necessity! Now…now if I SAY that I think you two would hit it off then damn it, you two would hit it off! I know you enough to know the kind of people you can handle being around, okay?" As he lost steam his face lost its' color and he seemed to be gaining control of himself. All the while John could not help but feel like a first rate heel and an idiot of the highest order. It was difficult to reign in the constant self-protective defenses he always kept up and ready to go.

"Okay…yes, alright Mike. I'm sorry." He held out a placating palm, gaze flickering from Mike's chest to his eyes, unable to hold his gaze for long.

"Good. Now…hurry up; if we're much longer he probably be gone." With little more than a nod, neck still red from the embarrassment of having his heart disease suffering friend explode wildly in the hallway of the hospital, John limped along behind Mike towards the elevator. Before John could ask which floor Mike had pushed the button, leaning ahead and around John to press the-

"Basement?"

"Uh-HUH."

"But that's where-"

"Uh-HUH." John frowned, lips pursed as the lift lurched to life around them and the gentle tug of gravity confirmed their downward descent.

OoOoOoOoO

For a moment, as they stepped through the doors to the lab, John believed quite suddenly that Mike was trying to set him up. Not in a joking, silly manner, but to the woman working in the lab. He offered her a brief smile, leaning heavily on his cane, and said the most charming thing he could come up with.

"Hello!" And mentally kicked himself.

"Oh, Mike! Hello! And who-?" She was speaking now and it seemed she knew Mike and now John's belief that he was trying to set her up with her became more realistic.

"Cell phone." John blanched, jumping slightly as he realized that there was, in fact, someone else in the room with them. More surprisingly, it seemed as though he were speaking to him.

"Uh..p-pardon, what?" The man sighed and stood up from the microscope he'd been leaned over, giving John a good look at the man. Tall, very tall, curly hair, serious eyes and very strong features and-

"Your CELL phone. I prefer to text." An order? Still struggling to find the words to respond, John fumbled in his coat pocket until he withdrew his cell phone. It was an old, outdated thing that he'd really meant to get replaced but had not found the time. Yet it seemed to be what the man wanted and before he could properly offer the device it was whisked from his hand. The woman sighed and began to play with the ends of her pony-tail as though she wanted to run her hands through her hair but was unable to. A nervous one, the girl, but cute John supposed. His eyes roved over her: smart, cute, comfortable working with the dead, oh and just infected with the flu. He could see it in the edges of her eyes and the twitching of her fingers. Probably hadn't even started feeling it yet. And tired, she was tired… she was also dealing with some anxiety. He watched as her gaze flitted from him to the man and realized that he was out of luck; she was head over heels over whomever he was. This was both surprising and disheartening but before he could think or say anything else the man spoke again.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John jolted, aware only vaguely that Mike was smiling behind him.

"I..I beg your pardon?" The man sighed as though it was beyond burdensome to repeat himself.

"The phone. It's not yours, a gift sent overseas from…not parents, a sibling. Harry? But you're not close, you haven't got any texts or calls from or to him in ages. Probably due to his alcoholism, or perhaps the way he treated his wife. The cane, the limp, wounds, and the way you hold yourself. You've seen BATTLE, killed, but…also saved?" The man frowned, eyes piercing John's momentarily before roving over his body, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable and far too open.

"You did two tours…almost three. Wounded in battle, sent home; how do you like the violin? I play it when I'm thinking."

"You…play…?"

"I'm quite good at it." And with that he tossed John back his phone and began shrugging on his coat.

"You were brought here because I was looking for a flat-mate, yes?" For the first time since he'd begun addressing him, the man paused, waiting for some sort of response or reaction from John who felt as though he'd just been hit by a hurricane. Not for the first time his eyes met the deductive man's and, though he saw that same impatience there as he had earlier, there was a note of curiosity in them. And for the first time in the entirety of his life, John's heart skipped a beat. His pulse quickened and he began to feel light-headed. The man's stature tightened and his eyes narrowed but before he could speak, John's lips parted and sound escaped.

"Brilliant." He breathed, feeling all at once dizzy and light-headed. He was…he was brilliant. Quick, observant, anemic, severely under-weight, sociopathic and beautifully brilliant. He was everything John was but in a tighter, messier package with the utter lack of a filter; the Asperger's, likely. How much more was hiding beneath that whip-thin exterior? Sure he'd been off about Harry being a woman but that seemed like a minor detail lost in the midst of those details. Mike had been right from the start. John made a mental note to get together more often with his old chum and certainly to take him out for a drink or two to make up for whatever doubt he'd held. In any case, the man appeared surprised that John had reacted the way he had. And for a moment, there was a tension that seemed to soak up all the air in the room.

The woman sighed and the tension was shattered and John could breathe again although he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

"Yes. Well. I must go. Meet me tomorrow and I'll show you the flat." And then he was gone and John was left feeling a bit winded.

"You uh… you alright?" The woman, she was speaking to him now and it seemed only proper that he respond.

"Yeah…Yeah, I mean, I'm fine. Now…who was that? And how exactly am I supposed to know where to go?" He shifted his weight as well as he could off of his leg, amused as he leaned even more heavily on the cane.

"Hmm? Oh, that's uh… Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You're to be his new flat-mate, right? That was what Mike was talking about earlier." John managed a nod, mouth opening as he moved to speak again-

Only to be interrupted as the phone he still held in his open hand vibrated, a number he had not yet programmed leaving a text. Eyebrows knitting together, he pressed a few buttons and opened the message.

"221 B Baker Street? SH? How did he…?"

"Yeah, that's the place he was talking about earlier, I think. You'll get used to him. He's not as bad as people say he is…" She shrugged and leaned back over the microscope, simultaneously resuming her work and dismissing him all together. John nodded and left, programming his mobile with Sherlock's number as he limped back up to the lobby and out to the street. His knee was still aching and so, rather than risk it giving out somewhere during the walk home, he hailed a cab. The ride back to his own small, dismally dark apartment offered him an extensive amount of time to think. Sherlock…Holmes. The name was unique, wasn't it? Almost as interesting as the man it belonged to. Thinking back to the man with the curls and the coat and that tone brought back his realization that his body had had a wholly unique reaction, one he wasn't sure he wanted to analyze.

"It was just finding someone like me. I…I might not have to hide…" He murmured as the cabby drove off and he limped up the stairs to his apartment. "I…Might not have to hide..." The thought was so singular, so FASCINATING, so…

"Beautiful."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Good uh...morning all! Thank you for reading my first chapter! I would like to present to you my second chapter of what I affectionately refer to as FIPN. If you like what I've got going here, let me know. Positive feedback and constructive criticism are always wonderful. Thanks again and please enjoy chapter two!_

It was a fitful night of restless sleep for Doctor John Hamish Watson. Muzzle flashes and hot blood spray in the night intermingled with ringlets of wavy hair and a commanding tone he could not ignore and he was waking in sweat-dampened sheets, jerking upright with the sudden jolt of adrenaline. It was around three in the morning that he finally gave up; sleep would not come that night.

Wrapped in his comforter, kettle heating on his stovetop, John curled up at the tiny desk in front of his window and booted up the laptop for the first time in almost a week. By the time the computer had gone through what seemed like an eon's worth of updates and was settling in at the home screen the kettle was boiling. Herbal tea, caffeine free, chamomile…and because he was feeling particularly adventurous, chamomile with a dash of VANILLA; he contemplated adding something not quite leaf based to the brew, but decided against it. John had always been aware of Harry's addiction; he looked down on her dependence on the substance with great disdain. She was predisposed to addictions and to become addicted to anything would not be out of the question. And while John himself did not have an addictive personality, he DID look for methods to cope; case in point, his limp. Regardless, he'd never been fond of alcohol.

Sipping his steaming cup of tea, John made himself comfortable before the glowing screen of his laptop. Said glowing screen, his window to all things current and dated, served as his haven when his own world grew to be too much. Too much pity in the glances of passerby, too much skepticism from those he tried to help and sometimes it became overwhelming.

There was time enough before the world around him woke and for a moment he allowed himself this peace. He wrapped his hands around the scalding cup of tea at his desk and allowed the silence to reign. His studio apartment, the cheapest thing he could afford, was chilly. He'd discovered some time ago, as the weather had begun to cool, that the heating unit was broken. Though he'd left numerous messages with his landlord John had not been surprised to be ignored, especially after hearing quite clearly that veterans were not a group of people the landlord was fond of. While this vaguely insulted him, he did not have it left in him to argue such petty matters with even pettier people. If him being a veteran meant that his single was icy in the early hours then he supposed there were worse things in life.

Though if things were indeed progressing the way they seemed to be, he wouldn't be in this apartment for much longer. The look on his face was a dark look, cynical, and he was altogether unaware of it as he edged his laptop's mouse towards the Internet and proceeded to search. It had seemed, from the way Mike and the lovely miss Molly had spoken about the curious man in the morgue, that Sherlock was a name he should recognize. Or at least be aware of. Considering that he'd only been vaguely amused by the man's name, John guessed he was missing something. His assumption proved to be quite true; typing in "Sherlock Holmes" produced an extensive amount of responses from the Internet. The seconds crept into minutes, which rolled into hours and STILL the articles continued. Articles upon articles…each detailing Holmes' feats and adventures, stories which, as they culminated under the doctor's keen eyes, became all the more fantastic and unbelievable. In the end, John was not sure what amused him more; the scathingly hateful crowd who denied his abilities and proclaimed him a fraud, or the fan club which seemed to consist almost entirely of a single group of four young women who seemed to take delight in squawking their superficial love all over the Internet.

Time passed too quickly for his tastes and before long John was replacing the laptop in his desk drawer and doing what he could to hide his somewhat haggard appearance. A splash of water, a change of clothes, another cup of caffeinated tea…and he looked precisely like a man who had had no sleep. There was, unfortunately, nothing to be done about it; shrugging on his coat and grabbing up his umbrella and his cane, John exited his tiny, chilly, apartment for lands unknown.

OoOoOoO

It was just drizzling when John made it to 221B Baker's Street. The drizzle had not stopped, nor had it gotten worse and this was just as well, John though, as he knocked hesitatingly on the door to the flat. He huffed, the chilled air of the early afternoon gusting out between parted lips, eyes wandering as he waited.

"Coming, coming! Just hold on a moment, would you… Sherlock! I think it's for you!" John had not expected to hear a woman. Though, he supposed after a moment of thought, the building had to be owned by SOMEBODY. Closing his eyes he could imagine the movements of those within; scuffing feet against stairs as someone made their way down, a door shutting, the unbolting of a door's heavy lock and the sound a hand makes at it lights on a slightly loose handle. If his ears were not deceiving him it would not be the woman opening the door. Though he kept his eyes lightly closed, John sensed more than heard Sherlock fling the door open and, after allowing his other senses to acknowledge his presence (heartbeat erratic, smells good, clean, breathing slightly heavy) the doctor slowly opened his eyes. He was greeted with the sight of a flushed Sherlock, bright spots of color on his cheeks indicating the speed with which he had made it to the door, curls just out of place and the urge to run his own fingers through them was startlingly sudden and overwhelming and gone before John had time to acknowledge it.

For nearly a minute they simply stared at each other; John could feel Sherlock's eyes roving over him, calculating, assessing…and suddenly John wondered if Sherlock had any idea that he, John, was different from most people; that they had more in common than a possible shared habitat. That they were…similar, if not the same.

He struggled with this, jaw working as he attempted whether or not to be amused or upset with this.

"Well, come inside then. I'll show you the place." Aloof, so very aloof this man was. As though everything were beneath him. But could John really fault him this? Had the good doctor not shared such similar thoughts on more than one occasion? Some dark, hateful corner of his mind was insisting and sheering that this man was on a level entirely his own and to assume any sort of closeness to him was childish and unlikely and inside he was feeling that rush to defend himself against an unspoken rightness in his thoughts. Again he said nothing as he followed along behind the infamous detective who was already halfway up the stairs. John grimaced as he shut the door behind him, offering a nod to the woman sitting in the room just beyond the door on the bottom level of the building.

"Hello there, dear. You must be here to check out the flat?" John blinked in mild surprise, turning back towards the small room just off the landing. He nodded and, working his tongue free from the roof of his mouth, he offered up his own introduction.

"Err, hello. Yes, I'm uh, I'm John. John Watson." He seemed to find nothing more to say as his eyes roved over her and he saw the blooming petals of what would one day become cancer. If he stayed, he would have to convince her to see a doctor before she passed the stage of no return. She was also, if he was reading her fingernails correctly, extremely deficient in both iron and vitamin B6, both of which he would do what he could to introduce to her diet.

"Ohhh, so YOU'RE John. Sherlock was going on about you earlier; seemed pretty excited about your coming today. To be honest, I had sort of thought you were-,"

"Mrs. Hudson, you can talk to him later." John could barely keep the smile from his face as Sherlock's exasperated tone floated down the stairs. "Do me a favor and make us some tea, would you?" Mrs. Hudson, the woman John assumed he was speaking with, let out a hefty sigh, shaking her head as she waved off John's help.

"Go on up, dear. He's going to keep that pacing up if you don't. But just so you know, I'm NOT your housekeeper."

He accepted this as well as any confused man might, smiling awkwardly as he watched Mrs. Hudson bustle out of sight. Once she had left he turned, leaning heavily on his cane, and began the trek up the stairs, cursing himself and his shoddy coping mechanisms as phantom pains shot through his knee. He took great pains to take it easy, despite his curiosity surrounding both the apartment and the man waiting for him upstairs. By the time he reached the small landing he was only just out of breath. It took his eyes a moment to adjust and when he did he could not help but blanch. For some apparently insane reason, John had come to the apartment with the assumption that it was bare and unfurnished. Perhaps, he reflected briefly as he stared about in awe, it had something to do with the fact that every single he'd ever lived in had followed that belief.

What he found, as he'd ascended the steps into the apartment proper, was a well lived in, very much occupied, messy space that might once have been an apartment. The detective was rummaging around and through a stack of books seemingly oblivious to John. It gave him a few moments to stare in confused wonder about the place, lips parted into an 'O' of mild shock. John wondered if there were, perhaps, a hint of sense to the mess the detective had created around himself.

Something about this, the room and the mess and the detective, made him smile.

When it seemed that the detective would not respond to his presence, John cleared his throat once. Then twice...then once more as the man continued rifling through a stack of papers before finally John spoke.

"Umm, Sherlock, what-," Sherlock whipped around, hair flinging free from his face so violently that John had a brief, absurd image of his hair flying free from his head.

"Ah, Doctor Watson." John tried to remember again how it was he'd come to know both of those things but ceased trying when the man trained his sharp eyes on him. Quite suddenly John wished to dissect this man. And he was not just referring to an in-depth conversation. The inner workings of this brilliant man, this man who was so suffering from anemia that "vampire" might have been a better designation than man, this man who had not eaten anything in nearly forty-eight hours and who it seemed had an allergy to dust…oh, how he'd love to see what made him tick.

"John?" He snapped back, a light flush on his cheeks; wishing to literally dissect a man just because he seemed interesting was probably the sign of a psychopath but, really, who was there to judge him? A smile touched on his lips and his eyes, wary and aware, turned once more to meet the detective's equally aware gaze and he realized, quite suddenly, that the man would lose his eyesight. His grin faltered, hiccupped, and though it was unusual for him to respond so visibly to something he had diagnosed John could not replace his carefree smile. A smile, so fake he could feel it stretching his cheeks and forcing his eyes into slits, struggled up from his go-to "Happy Doctor" place. The place he reached into when he knew he was in danger of letting himself be found out to someone new.

"Err, sorry Sherlock. I was just… a little surprised I guess? Did all of this…," John waved vaguely around the room. "Belong to the uh…previous tenants?" Sherlock's eyes seemed to bore into his own for a moment and briefly the good doctor broke out in a light sheen of sweat. It was as though every muscle were thrumming beneath his too tight skin; his everything felt stretched out and ready to pop. He could still see it, too, and that was the worst part. His eyes kept slipping back to the detective's, hoping that he had been wrong. Hoping he wasn't seeing what he knew he was. It had not progressed far enough for Sherlock to notice the signs of the muscular degeneration which would, inevitably, rob him of his sight in its' entirety. Perhaps he would begin to notice the blurring in another couple of years. The blind spots shortly after. John was also at a loss as to how the disease could be advancing as rapidly as it seemed to be. All of this was considered and filed away for further examination in the couple of moments it took Sherlock to respond.

"Well, not exactly no, I just…" He shrugged and waved a hand in John's direction, indicating not only that everything in the flat was his but that he had been moved in for some time and had, in fact, already assumed that John would be joining him.

There was something about this that made John feel…well, he wasn't quite sure how he felt. A tiny smile tugged his lips up and it was genuine this time. John was about to make a comment about the bucket of what appeared to be maggots on the kitchen table when, from behind, the door was flung violently open. A man, with salt and pepper hair and gray coat, very nearly toppled him over in his rush to enter the flat. Instincts honed to a fine point, sent John whirling away from the door and against the nearest wall. The intruder paused for a moment, gathering himself and regaining his equilibrium.

"Sherlock, we-"

"Inspector Lestrade, so nice of you to join us! Please, let yourself in and feel free to get comfortable." John could not hide his look of amusement but he DID manage to twist it into something closer to confusion as he regarded his soon to be roommate. Despite his witty response, Sherlock seemed to know why the inspector had come.

"Um…yes… I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to just…burst in but Sherlock we need you. There's been-,"

"Another ACCIDENT, right? Another completely random death that has absolutely NOTHING to do with the other string of completely random…," He paused in his satiric reference to the mystifying so-called suicides which had been so prominent in the papers, eyes wide and assessing as they took in Lestrade's appearance. "But there was something different… Something you need ME for, hmmm?"

In all of his years of life, all of his military life, John had never met someone quite so excited over a death. But that wasn't it was it? Though John did not usually analyze in this manner, he could see it as clear as day. Sherlock NEEDED this. It was not so simple a thing as being delighted that someone was dead; there was EXCITEMENT to be had. It took only a few seconds for John to understand that this was one of the ways Sherlock lived.

More than anything he wished to be there while Sherlock was working.

"Um…excuse me." John interjected, interrupting the inspector. "But who are you and what's going on?" Sherlock waved his hand vaguely in John's direction, indicating both that whatever the inspector had to say could be said in front of John and that John should shut up. It was remarkable, John reflected as he stared with renewed interested at the salt and peppered man, how quickly he was starting to pick up on Sherlock's gestures.

"Something's different, John. Those murders-,"

"SUICIDES, Sherlock."

"Those MURDERS were all connected but they kept me off the scenes… For you to ask for my help means that something is different." Sherlock mused, tapping one long finger against his lips as he paced about the room. Movement, there was always some sort of movement with Sherlock. John wondered what it was like inside that head of his. The thought of it, the thought of knowing just how those gears were whirring, gave the good doctor a bit of a chill. Before much more thought could be given, the detective spun on the spot, freezing in his pacing to turn back towards them; his eyes were blazing beneath his fringe of curls.

"The scene's getting cold, let's GO." And with that, they were gone, the detective trailing behind the consulting detective as he whisked himself away. The flat, John realized as he limped his way over to the great big easy chair in the center of the room, was unbelievably quiet.

Rolling his cane between his hands, John stared about in mild interest; the beakers on the kitchen table…the piles of books filling up the empty spaces in this room…and yes, if he was not mistaken, a skull. Fascinating, really, looking at the spines it appeared as though Sherlock organized the whole stacks not just by color of book but topic, author's MIDDLE name, and the year of publication. He tilted his head and examined the ones in the stack closest to him and was only slightly surprised to see titles that he had read long ago. In medical school.

"John, what are you waiting for? A written invitation? I thought you wanted to see more." John would have been lying if he'd said that the consulting detective's sudden reappearance had not sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. Surprised nearly out of the chair, John twisted his torso around to stare incredulously at the impatient looking Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what-,"

"John. The scene is getting cold, didn't you hear me?" And, really, what could John say to that?

OoOoOoO

They arrived at what appeared to be something like an apartment complex (tall building…lots and lots of stairs) after an interesting drive (during which Sherlock deduced and explained the majority of his time in Iraq and the relevance of his sister to both his phone and his life and was wrong only on the account of Harry's gender). It would have been a lie if John had said he'd not been impressed by Sherlock's show of observational skills. He wondered, as they freed themselves from the cab and made their way to the police blockade, if Sherlock would appreciate his talents as much as John appreciated his. After a brief and uncomfortable encounter with far too many officers, two of whom appeared to be involved in some sort of romantic tryst, John followed Sherlock into the building.

He was breathing heavily by the time he made it to the room where the woman lay dead on the floor; twelve flights…no working elevator…and now John was fairly certain that his knee was on fire. He was, in fact, terrified of looking because he was absolutely sure that his knee was LITERALLY on fire. Huffing and puffing, he glanced down at his heaving chest, hating how out of shape he felt and how exhausted that climb had made him.

The inspector, Lestrade…Greg, if John had heard the other detectives correctly, was waiting for him just outside the room. John missed neither the pity in his eyes as the man glanced down at John's leg, nor the looming heart attack the man would experience if he didn't get his stress and poor eating habits out of the way. Words of helpful warning jumped to his lips, swallowed back before they could be spoken; he didn't yet know the inspector well enough. He could not explain how he knew the exact depth of plaque build up around the man's arteries due to the consistency of his breathing, nor could he have told the man that he knew the exact date he would experience said heart attack should his habits not be brought under control.

"John." John blinked himself out of his thoughts and into the room where death had taken up residence. He had smelled it the few steps before he'd entered the room and now his eyes lit on the woman, lying face down on the floor. His gaze remained trained on her for some time; mind whirring as he inadvertently ignored the man who had initially pulled him from his thoughts.

"John, what do you see?"

"Sherlock I see a dead woman; what do you think I see?" His words were harsh, clipped and dark in the dingy room.

"Clearly, John. But is that all?" Sherlock had been in the room a full four minutes before John had arrived and had, with those four minutes, likely determined her cause of death and a whole other multitude of personal facts. It was clear, as well, that Sherlock expected more of John here. It was why, in essence, he had brought John along with him.

"Sherlock I don't even want him in this ROOM, let alone near-,"

"Lestrade if I am to assist you then consider him… my personal assistant. If you want my help, then you accept his as well." John glanced up in time to see the dirty look Sherlock shot towards Lestrade, mindful of the consulting detective's words. The doctor limped slowly over to the woman on the floor. A brief, telling glance at the looming man and he knew that it was okay to know that she had been poisoned. He was not, however, supposed to know what had taken her life. He knelt down beside the woman, wincing in pain that was both wholly real and entirely imagined, and took far longer than he needed to examine her, taking care to sniff her lips and check her arms. After what seemed to be an appropriate length of time, he sat back on his haunches and turned his attention back to Sherlock who, it seemed, had been watching him the whole time. Heat spread along the back of the doctor's neck.

"What do you see, John?" Doctor Watson cleared his throat. He paused, eyes flicking over her body to double-check for the signs that he'd seen the first time.

"This woman has been poisoned." He pointed to her lips, her half-lidded eyes. "Blue lips, and her pupils are nearly nonexistent. I'd say it was fairly recently, likely within a couple of hours. Rigor mortis has yet to set and her eyes haven't clouded over." He paused, glancing up and down her body, his own eyes dark and heavy with a far too familiar sadness. Death of any kind always hit him hard but murder was what really shook him, sickened him deep down in his core. To take the life of another…it was disgusting. John realized he was clenching his hand, his knuckles standing out in stark white contrast against his skin, until he felt his nails break the skin of his palm. Slowly, focusing on the task, John loosened his fist and resisted the urge to glance down even as a hand was thrust into his field of vision. Blinking owlishly, John tilted his head up and was surprised to see Sherlock staring almost impassively down at him, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. A moment passed before he accepted the silent offer, trying his best to pretend he didn't feel the shock of electricity as their skin touched.

And if he removed himself from the detective, took a few steps away and cleared his throat and leaned against his cane as though he were exhausted, well, there had been far too many stairs up here weren't there?

What happened next was nothing short of beautiful; Sherlock agreed that she had been poisoned, determining that the letters scratched into the floor were meant to be "Rachel," despite the huffs and irritated snorts of the derisive officers at the scene. He determined that she had just been picked up at the airport (mud spatters on her legs), and that the luggage was missing… John could not help but continue to be fascinated by the man's mental processes. John had been able to tell from the moment he'd smelled her body, shortly before actually seeing her. What had killed her was a highly volatile, highly toxic medication given only to patients suffering from a brain aneurism. Any breath could literally be his last so why not take the breath of those around them?

John frowned, eyes glazing over as he considered this. It wasn't quite right but, he supposed, it was closer to the truth and really he ought to at least hint towards what he thought to Sherlock-

Except the man was gone. In the span of perhaps three minutes both the inspector and Sherlock had vacated the room, leaving him behind with the woman the…the body. He swallowed hard, hating that transition in one's mind that always followed death, as he glanced down once more at the body. A chilly veil swept over his mind and he allowed it, watching impassively as the techs began their work, carefully stripping the body of all possible pieces of evidence. John Watson was gone, and it was Doctor John Hamish Watson who exited the room, irritation filling his eyes as he continued to not see the man he'd arrived with. Ignoring the curious stares of the techs on the staircase, John limped his way down and out of the building, unable to keep the wince from his face as he crossed the last step.

"Leave you behind, did he?" His head snapped up, wavering attention brought back into sharp focus at the sound of a female voice addressing him. He turned to see a woman with curls and mocha colored skin, hip hocked and arms crossed over her chest; the same one Sherlock had said was in an affair with the one called Anderson. Hers was a look of amusement bordering on pity, neither of which were expressions he was unaccustomed to and were, in fact, looks he was not fond of.

"And you are…?"

"Detective sergeant Sally Donovan and you must be his new pet project, am I right?" John bristled, resisting the urge to curl his lip in disgust as she chuckled. Heavy drinker, like his sister; John could already tell that he did not wish to know her. He could see it in the whites of her eyes, the lines in her face. She was suffering near constant symptoms of anxiety, and though he could see just as clearly that the majority of it stemmed from a severe chemical imbalance John did not feel that urge to rid her of her troubles. Some part of him would likely feel the guilt over that at a later time but, in that moment, he could do little more then barely contain his disgust.

"Did you see him or not?" He snapped. She snorted, uncrossing her arms as she sauntered towards him.

"Yeah, I did as a matter of fact. Nearly bolted out of that building like his coat was on fire." She sniffed, glancing off towards the street. "He had that LOOK in his eyes. I doubt you'll be seeing him any time soon." John rolled this around in his head for a moment, absorbing it, but said nothing in response.

"You do understand that he's a psychopath, right? You know why he comes around here? Sherlock gets off on it, lives for it. He doesn't give a shit about that poor woman upstairs…he just wants something new and exciting. And you know what? One of these days solving the murders here won't be enough. No, Sherlock will-,"

"Do you think you could call me a cab?" He interjected. "Bum knee and all; makes it difficult to stand around in the rain like this." Curt and straight to the point, the only way he felt himself capable of responding. Fury was turning his vision red and all at once he was reliving grade school. Junior high. High school. The military; his first ward and all the men he helped and saved…all the men who turned on him. Called him a fraud and spat on him for doing everything in his power to… No. He would not revisit that dark, dark place. Detective Donovan was still there, staring at him not only like he was an alien, but like he was an alien that had just told her to shut up.

"You know what? Don't bother. I doubt you'd even manage that without fucking something up, especially with that wicked hangover of yours." John's lips curled up into a smile and, ignoring the look of huffy indignation and hurt now plastered over the lovely young alcoholic's face, John limped his way towards the street. Yes it had been cruel, to stab where she was most vulnerable, but he was only leveling the playing field, wasn't he? And if he felt some remorse, any guilt over using his skills to hurt another, the doctor buried it, shoved it into a distant corner as he turned onto the street and continued away from the building. He was fairly certain he no longer required her assistance.

OoOoOoO

The return to the apartment should have been quick and without incident. He'd attempted to hail a cab and had had no luck right off the bat. He blamed it on the rain and was beginning to believe he would make the entire trek back to the flat on foot. He got nearly four blocks listening to the incessant ringing of phones following him before he finally answered a payphone. Subsequently, he was whisked away by a nondescript black limousine and blindfolded by a beautiful woman who proceeded to reject his request for a date. Some time later and John was walking through an empty warehouse, directed by the woman to enter. In this manner, John Watson became acquainted with Mycroft Holmes, brother to Sherlock Holmes, although introductions were not quite so forthcoming.

"Ahhh, Doctor John Watson. So lovely that you could join me; I hope the ride wasn't too difficult on that knee of yours? I've heard that sitting for long periods of time, especially in cramped quarters, can cause-,"

"You clearly know who I am, sir, so let's stop with the games, shall we? This might be a shot in the dark, but I'm guessing you must be related to Sherlock. Considering your age, I would say…his brother?" He tried to sound blasé, bored, despite the fact that Sherlock's brother had essentially kidnapped him. Simultaneously, John thanked his insomnia for the hours he'd spent researching Sherlock the night prior. He was also having difficulty unseeing the fact that Mycroft was suffering from some rather severe impotency after having just gone out with a woman (literally, it could have been no more than an hour that he had left a woman bereft and likely wanting in a motel room). He found this amusing only because the problems were, much like his knee, in Mycroft's own head. He was also infected with some nasty variation of flu, the symptoms of which would become apparent within a few hours. For some inexplicable reason, the thought of this rich and refined government employee bent over the toilet relinquishing everything he'd eaten over the past few hours left the doctor bemused. Something else he wondered if he would feel guilt over later.

"I'm afraid so. I'm also afraid that you sharing a flat with my brother is neither in his best interests, nor yours, Doctor." John bristled. There were too many possibilities in that statement. It spoke of things kept hidden. It spoke of things long since buried.

"And why is that, Mycroft?" He said, emphasizing the fact that the man had yet to properly introduce himself.

"Because, John, there are far too many people out there who would willingly and happily use that connection for their own benefit. I care too much to allow this to happen."

"Listen, I don't know who you think I am," John had finished with this conversation sentences ago and was now barely containing the fire Donovan had stoked. He could not, however, contain his delight as the elder Holmes brother blanched, visibly jolting at John's sudden and enraged response. "But I have no intention of doing anything other than renting a flat with your brother and, perhaps, offering a bit of help when needed. You have no idea who I am, where I have come from, what I have gone through or what I am still dealing with. And how DARE-"

"Does your therapist believe your intermittent tremor and limp are caused by PTSD? Does she say that you are incapable of coping with life outside of war because the war was just too terrible?" And now it was John's turn to be stunned. He was not sure whether to be angry or surprised; those were indeed the reasons his therapist had provided early on in their therapy. Mycroft seemed to take his disbelief as a reason for him to continue and, with a tiny smug little smile, did just that.

"You ought to tell her to explore different possibilities in the future. You've been under an undue amount of stress from the second you stepped inside my limousine to this very second and it seems that your shakes have abandoned you." John's retort, despite being witty and perfect in that moment, escaped him as he glanced down to his fists and saw that they were clenched not in fear but in rage. As annoying and presumptuous as the elder Holmes' brother was, the man was also right. The tension between them was palpable and not for the first time in that evening John found himself wondering just what it was about these Holmes' men. As quickly as that tension had seemed to build it dissipated suddenly, leaving John feeling little more than bone-crushing exhaustion.

His knee was on fire again.

"I'm pretty certain there's nothing left to say here. Unless you wish to further demonstrate your psychiatric prowess, I would appreciate it if your man over there would remove his hand from his weapon and take me to Baker Street." Mycroft blinked, a moment of surprise flashing in his eyes before a smile crossed his face and his gaze filled with mirth.

"Of course."

A slight head nod, some shuffles and fifteen minutes of blindfolded driving later (the drive broken only by a requested stop to his original single) found John outside the flat at Baker Street. Laden with his weapon, he glanced back at the vehicle, smirking slightly as the woman who had turned him down (twice now…John was nothing if not tenacious) rolled her eyes, and then the windows, up. A light rain had begun to fall and combined with the chill of the night John was ready for a hot cup of tea. He paused only momentarily as he realized he had not been given a key to the flat and was only vaguely surprised to find that one had been slipped onto his person along with a note:

_Thought you might be needing this._

_-SH_

John was not quite sure how to feel about this. When had Sherlock gotten close enough to slip this into his pocket?

The thought sent goose bumps racing along his skin.

Ignoring this, John tromped his way into the flat, up the stairs and into the living room. He frowned as he removed his coat, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor and allowing his scarf and hat to join the coat moments later. Sinking down into the chair, the only things on his mind were the headlines from the past several months. The apparent suicides…the lack of leads and the confusion and terror running rampant in London… Sherlock was right. If they were connected then these suicides were definitely murders; John could tell that by the caliber of poison that had taken that woman's life.

He stood, rubbing away the wince on his face with his left hand as he made his way into the kitchen with the intention of making tea. He supposed, as he set the water boiling, that he was the only one who knew what the apparent poison actually was. This was due in large part to the fact that this medication was only a prototype. An experimental drug used to treat aneurisms which posed too much of a risk to operate, the prototype was like a refined cocktail. Anti-seizure medication (valproic acid seemed to have the most consistent results), calcium channel blockers, heavy pain medication and (this was the real kicker) a very new, very volatile form of radiation treatment. Meant to both decrease the size of the aneurism and aide in a safe removal, the translation of radioactive chemicals into a pill meant to aide one with a deadly condition was new on this frontier. It was also incredibly dangerous and highly toxic in its' maximum dosage; the dosage would have to had begun small and been increased consistently over time.

The doctor snorted as he sipped his chamomile tea, grateful as the familiar taste soothed his spirits and warmed his belly. It was a familiar feeling, one he welcomed with open arms as he began considering turning in (ignoring, of course, the fact that he was not even remotely moved in, had none of his belongings there nor had any idea of where he would sleep)-

"Oh, John, I was hoping you'd made it back before I did. Quickly, take this case, it's hers, and follow me."

"Sherlock, this that woman's suitcase? The woman in pink from the building?" Already John was starting to understand the curious combination of exhaustion and exhilaration that seemed to consistently accompany the detective whenever he entered a room. Still sitting, John twisted his torso around to watch as Sherlock swept into the room and tossed the equally pink case onto the table where, moments prior, there had been a stack of novels.

"Keep up, John. I found this in a dumpster, only a couple blocks from where the woman was found. I need you to text this message," John glanced down at Sherlock's proffered hand from where he sat and, once he realized that Sherlock would not bring the note to him, pushed himself to his feet and limped over to take it. "To the number just below it. If I'm right…" There were the sounds of locks snapping and then the case was open. John's quick fingers tapped out the message ("What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St. Please Come") and set the phone down on the table. Sherlock's search through the case produced lingerie, a change of clothing, toiletries and…

Nothing. Even John, whose mind was better suited to see the strains of a cold just now settling into Sherlock's immune system, could tell that something was missing. Something significant. Almost simultaneously as John reached this conclusion the phone on the table started to ring. Sherlock, whose head had been buried in the case, jerked upright with a triumphant smile stretching across his face.

"Only the murderer would have answered that text, John. He took her phone. And now he isn't sure what happened to her when he left her." He shut the case with a definitive snap and turned to John.

"John…are you hungry?" The doctor in question could do little more than blink for a few beats. He could scarcely follow where the conversation had left them and, after a brief self-introspection, found himself nodding his assent.

"Yeah I could eat, I s'pose. Why?" Already Sherlock had found and donned his coat, collar turned up in preparation against the chill outside, and was tossing John his.

"Hurry up John. We'll miss our reservation if we don't leave now." Not quite knowing what to say, John shrugged on his coat and snatched up his cane, limping quickly to catch up with the detective who was already out the door.

OoOoOoO

"Try the chicken-alfredo or…" From across the small booth-set table John watched as Sherlock browsed the wine list. John, on the other hand, hadn't yet bothered to pick up his menu. This was the second time within only three hours that they were sitting in the same restaurant and this time he hoped to actually partake of his meal. He felt…winded. Dizzy and shell-shocked and so utterly sure he had never endured so much change in a single evening in his entire life. He was only mildly surprised when he came out of his thoughts to find a plate of steaming tortellini and a glass of red wine placed before him.

Ordering for him. Now Sherlock was ordering for him.

John tried to remind himself that this was a negative thing and that the warm and fuzzies should not accompany the sweet taste of the wine as it slid down his throat. He also tried to remind himself that he had known this man less than three days and should not feel as comfortable with him as he did. Still…

His gaze flitted to his side, searching for the cane he knew he had left here hours prior. He supposed he would need to reflect on what had happened; an adrenaline rush he hadn't experienced since the war as they raced through the streets of London. Chasing, of all things, a cab. Sherlock had been so sure when it pulled up in front of the restaurant and even now John felt himself toying with the idea the detective had so latched on to. His eyes grew hazy and he could not help the exhausted smile that slowly spread across his features as he recalled their initial arrival at the restaurant.

OoOoOoO

"Ahhh, Sherlock!" For a man many seemed to find difficult, Sherlock made many a close friend with the strangest people. The warm greeting was followed by a mostly one-sided hug from an overweight mustachioed gentleman whom Sherlock introduced as the manager of the tiny Italian bistro.

"Hello, Rory, so wonderful to see you again-,"

"Yes, yes and who is this? Must be quite an interesting person to have snared our Sherlock!" The man chuckled and John blinked owlishly in response, gears grinding to a halt as his mind fought to keep up with the conversation and its' implications.

"But never mind me, let's get you settled at a table. And I'll go ahead and say up front that your money is no good here, Sherlock. So you and your date can just enjoy dinner!" Finally John balked, pulling away from Sherlock as a fierce flush raced across his cheeks.

"Ah, no no. Sherlock and I, we're not, I mean." The doctor cleared his throat. "We're not on a DATE, sir, I'm not GAY." Both men stared curiously at him and his flushed skin darkened under their scrutiny. A moment or two passed and the man whom Sherlock had referred to as Rory chuckled and continued to usher them into their seats as though John's little outburst had not occurred. With a flourish their menus were placed in front of them and Rory left the two of them alone.

"Sherlock I'm not gay." It seemed important, somehow, to reiterate this.

"It doesn't matter to ME, John. I'm married to my work. A relationship has no place in my life." Eyebrow raised, the detective picked up his menu-

And froze, gaze directed out the window. A moment later John mirrored the man's look, focusing outside until his eyes lit on a cab that had pulled up just outside the restaurant. No movement inside the cab and when, nearly a minute later, it began to pull away from the curb, Sherlock bolted out of his seat and immediately dashed from the building, calling for John to hurry up behind him.

Sudden twists and turns, gasping breath and pounding blood; the duo had chased the cab as though lives depended on it. In the end, the doctor mused in his plastic coated bench, nothing had come from it. The man had been an American; a mystified gentleman just arrived from the airport, bags held carefully between his legs. Sherlock had been quiet the rest of the walk back through the downtown London traffic and to the restaurant they'd abandoned earlier, clearly contemplative as they slid back into their seats amidst the confused looks Rory gave them.

OoOoOoO

Now, sitting back at the table, knee no longer burning with pain, John had yet to bring up the fact that whoever was attacking these people was suffering from a terminal affliction and was (due to the strength and the dosage of the medication) a man. He was also smart, very smart, or at least he believed himself to be. He swallowed a bite with difficulty, grimacing as he reflected on the audacity of the murderer. Sure he believed himself smart…but the real question, the doctor mused as he poked at his dish, was how the murderer convinced these people to take something that would kill them.

"John. I have been speaking to you for at least two minutes and have yet to receive any sort of verbal or nonverbal response. You also appear to be disgusted by your food and, considering I ordered the best tortellini dish in London, I know that to be false." John turned away from the window he'd been loosely staring out of and forced a smile. He was still finding it difficult to meet the detective's gaze; the disease he could see building behind those striking pair of blues was more than disorienting.

"Err, sorry Sherlock… I just," He trailed off, shrugging as he felt his gaze slipping microscopically down to the detective's cheek even as his mind slipped back to the chase through London's streets. Oh that _rush_…

"John if you leave me again I'm going to-,"

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm still here. So what now?" John had to keep his amusement from his face as Sherlock visibly relaxed; the man liked his attention.

"Well… We go back to the flat, obviously. Now finish your food; you're going to offend Rory." An order and an obvious statement rolled all together into one flat phrase; John could not help but be impressed. A few bites and a delicate sip of wine as the consulting detective dug into his meal and John could do little more than stare. His jaw worked, words scrambling in his mouth and mind as he ran through various possible sentences and topics… none of which seemed the right way to tell the detective that he was going to lose his sight. Beyond that the doctor was lost, incapable of bringing any other thoughts up in his mind. Incapable of informing the detective who it was they were looking for. Incapable of breaking this sudden and curious level of friendship that had bloomed between them in only a couple of days; John could do little more, it seemed, than eat his tortellini.

Their meal concluded enveloped in a companionable silence, despite John's inability to meet Sherlock's gaze.

OoOoOoO

John wasn't sure how he had not made the connection before now. He raced through the night, a light sheen of sweat standing out on his brow, lungs expanding and contracting rapidly in time to the pounding of his feet on the pavement. Panic, hot and tight in his chest, pushed him far beyond his body's limits; Sherlock had been gone for almost twenty minutes now. There was no time to find a car, no car in the damp, dark night to find. The GPS in the phone had told him exactly where to go; side streets and shortcuts would get him there faster than any vehicle if he could only push himself hard enough. The doctor turned a corner and then another, legs trembling and slipping out from beneath him on the wet pavement as he nearly wiped himself out with the inertia of the turn. He scrambled to his feet and pushed on, time pressing in on him as heavily as the chilly evening air. Every second was a stab, an ache, a jolt to his heart and each was undeniable.

Breath puffing out in a cloud around his face, he skidded to a stop between two buildings; he was here. Sherlock and the man were here, somewhere… John's eyes flicked between the two identical buildings, forcibly shoving his panic down. His fault. It was his fault because he had withheld information; he had kept Sherlock from the truth, and if he didn't fix this… A deep breath and he was bolting towards the one on the left, knowing that his fifty/fifty shot of choosing the right building did not leave much room for error.

OoOoOoO

They'd arrived back at the apartment after their meal to a very upset Mrs. Hudson and the officers John had met earlier that evening; she was downstairs waiting for them while upstairs they were tearing the flat apart. Anger flew through the flat, bouncing from person to person as easily as their fluid accusations. All the while Mrs. Hudson, standing off to the side and clearly distressed, trying her hardest to take Sherlock's attention, rambling about some cabbie…

The next thing John knew, Sherlock had disappeared. Everyone was scrambling, throwing the disarray of the flat into downright chaos as everyone searched for clues as to where Holmes might have disappeared. In the end it was John, using the wonders of the Internet and an intelligence no one else believed existed, to fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. It was the cabbie it had ALWAYS been the cabbie.

Ignoring the cries of the officers of the law, John slipped away, running with a renewed vigor towards a goal only he could achieve.

OoOoOoO

Inside the building it was colder somehow. John could hear his breath, reverberating off the stark hallways plastered with gentle yet firm reminders to never do drugs and that auditions for Romeo and Juliet would be held in the auditorium-

_There_.

He turned, sliding on the slick linoleum flooring as he pressed his face against the classroom window. The door was locked, the doctor's hands slipping as he tried to turn the knob, but none of that mattered as his eyes, his sharp eyes, saw the scene from the other building. His subconscious registered books, low tables… a library, most likely, while his conscious mind registered the great detective, face to face with the murderer. All of the blood drained from John's face leaving him pale and nearly glowing in the gloom. Before thought could enter the equation he took a few paces away from the door, gathered some momentum…and burst through it with enough force to send him into the lab table nearest the door. He righted himself quickly, only vaguely surprised to find his gun in his hand.

"SHERLOCK!" He cried, only just aware of the stupidity of yelling when it was physically impossible to be heard. Across the way, Sherlock was raising his hand towards his mouth, mimicking the movement of the man whose back was to him.

He'd never survive that pill.

Fury and something he'd felt only in the war overcame the good doctor then, and before he was aware of what he was doing, the smell of gunpowder filled the air and the sharp report of the gun was ringing in his ears. Some soothing, twisted version of shock swept through him as he watched the cab driver fall to the ground and Sherlock rush to the man's side. Even from this distance he could see Sherlock's lips moving, knew he was asking the cab driver why he'd done it. Relief washed over him, then. Sherlock had not taken the pill. The detective was not dead due to his actions.

Letting out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding, John slipped first from the room and then the building; the police sirens were close now and being caught with a recently fired firearm would be quite bad.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Chaos erupted around John; the police arrived, and he was lost in the flurry of activity. It took far longer than he had hoped to find Sherlock and, when he did, John could feel the smile stretching easily across his face; the detective was huddled in the back of an ambulance, a bright orange shock blanket draped about his shoulders. He was speaking to Lestrade, disinterest and irritation plain as daylight on his sharply angled face. For a moment John toyed with the idea of disappearing into the crowd, fading away into the darkness of the evening-

"John." The doctor blanched, cheeks flushing as he realized that Sherlock's intense gaze was directed entirely on him. Slipping past the officers was easy and he arrived at the ambulance just in time to see the detective slip free and directly to his side. John fell into the man's stride easily and together they walked free.

"You alright, Sherlock?"

"If I wasn't alright would I be here? I'm just in SHOCK is all." The words implied irritation yet his tone suggested warmth, humor dancing through the sentence in a way that John was coming to recognize.

John smiled. Something told him that whatever the future might hold, it certainly wouldn't be…boring.

"No, Sherlock… I suppose you wouldn't be."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Welcome back readers! I'm pleased to present chapter three of FIPN. Thank you to he or she who reviewed my last chapter; your feedback made me feel all the warm and fuzzies. I would like to warn you all that this chapter is where I deviate from the first season. It is also where creepy/violent Moriarty comes into play. If any of this upsets you you may want to turn back now. Otherwise, positive feedback and constructive criticisms continue to be loved. Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy chapter three!_

Time seemed to lose its' fluidity; it became great, broken chunks of meaning floating through the space that John Watson occupied. Moments that were happening, those which had already happened, and those yet to have happened... Increasingly, John had difficulty dissecting his days, a habit he'd relied on to keep track of his thoughts. What John felt to be the most curious about their arrangement was how…comfortable it felt. He had all the privacy in the world and yet he was certain that Sherlock had more than once gone through his belongings. John could smell the man in his things, whiffs of the detective puffing up from drawers of shirts John had only just put away.

To be fair, Sherlock had waited nearly three weeks before invading his personal space. John had only waited a full forty-eight hours. He wondered if Holmes had retaliated by going through John's drawers… It did not seem like something you openly asked your roommate.

Boredom eventually pushed John to seek out employment. From a logical and financial point of view finding a job, something steady and consistent, made perfect sense. Sherlock's cases were erratic at best and payment for said cases even less so. His additional need for easily accessible money (his tea was not something he would ever be willing to sacrifice) and the desire to find something useful to do with his free time were also influential factors.

Despite the glowing reviews littered throughout his military career, John found it difficult to find more than an interview at most of the local hospitals. He discovered this was due to the lapse in his practicing license, something he'd been unaware of until this second interview. Eventually John managed to find a combination of loopholes and a free clinic desperate for help and, three days after beginning his job search, he had found employment.

The first couple of shifts were awkward. John's bedside manner was appalling to say the least, and it was obvious that he was long out of practice. It did not take long for the doctor to slip back into a more pleasant persona and before long he was the most popular doctor at the clinic. Shifting into smiles and placating nods, John found himself approaching a comfortable level of contentment. Time soon shifted to become something wholly unpredictable. There were the moments of quiet when John had the flat to himself, and then there were the moments of inexplicably perfect adrenaline fueling cases. All priorities would shift entirely to suit Holmes' needs and though, in most cases, John had no problem with this, he would not be denied the occasional romantic interlude with the occasional beautiful woman. Sarah had lasted longer than the first two, both of whom had turned tail and bolted for the hills when they had seen Sherlock with his infernal skull. The first time John was certain Sherlock had not heard their somewhat quiet approach up the stairs. The second time the git had been laying in wait and had burst forth just as John had been escorting her upstairs. The skull had been bad enough but both arms coated in blood from the wrist down with spatters and gobs of dried blood streaked on his shirt and face?

John had, quite justifiably, refused to speak to the detective for nearly a week over the second one.

But poor Sarah; John did not blame her for refusing to speak at work and John found himself grateful to still have a job. After all, not many people are so understanding after being kidnapped and nearly impaled by a giant spear.

Despite this aspect of his new life, the one that seemed to dictate that he was not allowed to date, John fell easily into their rhythm. Sherlock came and went but mostly the man was there. Frequently experimenting, sometimes complaining, Sherlock seemed to fill the room wherever he was. From the beginning they just...fit. John felt as though he had finally met someone capable of understanding him. Someone he, in turn, understood. John continued to wonder how much Sherlock could really see of him, but he ignored these lingering doubts when Sherlock gave him a look that clearly insinuated that John was a nematode. Still, somehow, they fit. And there was something so easy about fitting.

And if John awoke, twisted up in sweat-dampened sheets, ruined pants clinging to his legs, fingers reaching for the tangled mat of curls his half-asleep body still ached for, well... At least his wayward thoughts were not manifesting themselves during his waking moments. Clearly he was having an adverse reaction to his first real friendship.

Regardless of how curiously John seemed to be responding to Sherlock's presence, he found that the man in question seemed to have been influenced as well. He began to slow down. Not completely, of course. Not even more than a pinch. But it was noticeable to the good doctor and everyone else, particularly Inspector Lestrade. Greg was, in fact, so impressed that he had invited John out for drinks after Sherlock had offered some incite on something far below his level of intelligence after John had wheedled him into it. Though he had yet to take the Inspector up on his offer, he knew he would, and soon. Not only did he wish for some incite on Sherlock but he needed to work Lestrade's looming heart issues into the conversation. So long as medication and regular exercise were added to his regime, he would be more than fine.

Shortly after coming to terms with the fact that his lodging appeared permanent, John began exploring possibilities. If he were to be around Sherlock he would have to fix his eyes. Blindness was in the books for Sherlock's future and John would be damned if he let that happen. Experimenting of his own had to be done carefully, quietly so as not to arouse the brilliant man to what he was doing.

His every movement was analyzed and broken down in about a hundred ways just existing around Sherlock and so hiding himself became top priority. Not because he was afraid things would change because that was absurd. No, John was worried because of his past. His research.

His past, and therefore his research, was well hidden; he doubted even Mycroft could penetrate the seals placed on his work. Everything beyond the bare bones of his time at Oxford and in the military was hidden beneath miles upon miles of government issued red tape a mile thick. It was all about a gentle touch. If John just so happened to fix the permanent ache is Mrs. Hudson's back and remedied the occasional night terror Sherlock suffered from (a form so mild that John had wondered for a while if he was right) well, he was a doctor and nature always took its' course. Fixing Sherlock's vision not only threatened his current pleasant identity, it broke his resolve. It broke every promise, every self-inflicted restriction he had long ago placed on himself. Yet somehow, this seemed right. Breaking his vow for the man who had given him the first breath of freedom since leaving the military. No, since graduating medical school. It, too, seemed to fit.

For the first time in forever, John felt... Like he was in the right place. His emotions were difficult to pin down (he could tell that the couple who had just passed him were pregnant and that the man would have a severe allergic reaction when he went home to the new feline addition to the new house but not whether or not he himself was happy), and if he were honest, he wasn't sure he cared.

Making his way back from the store after a particularly long shift, John finally landed on contentment. He was content. Considering, he found himself contemplating as he shifted the groceries against his hip to free up his left hand, that he had spent the greater part of this past year idly considering suicide or arson, "contentment" seemed a step in the right direction. John shuffled first through the door to the building then up the stairs and into the apartment proper, groceries still balanced against his hip.

"John." He nearly dropped everything as he stepped inside. Sherlock had been gone for a little over a week this time and it seemed the man had returned just as suddenly as he had left. "Where have you been and why the hell did you leave your phone at the flat?"

"Oh hello, Sherlock. Wonderful to see you again. Have a nice trip, see anything fun, solve any cases whilst you were out and about?" John spoke as he stepped around the glowering detective, making his way to the kitchen (which was currently 85% free of nameless, smoking experiments) where he proceeded to dump the groceries on the counter. Still speaking to himself, John simultaneously started putting things away in the fridge purposefully ignoring the clear Mason jar filled with what appeared to be rancid cottage cheese and blood.

"Why yes I HAVE been quite busy putting things away and picking up the flat and cleaning the living daylights out of the darkest corners here, how KIND of you to notice!" Pointedly he was ignoring the agitated detective, speaking loudly as he moved about the small kitchen. In part, yes, John was irritated. It had taken days to not only make sense of the mess in the kitchen alone, but to organize the flat into something functional and habitable. Clearly his hard work was superfluous to his apparent roommate. However, even more than this, John was finding himself suddenly filled with an anxious, nervous, terribly excited energy. If Sherlock was not only back but also frustrated by his inability to reach John it had to mean they had a case, right? By running around the flat's kitchen he was simultaneously putting away the groceries and relieving himself of his frenetic energy without appearing too terribly affected by the detective's return.

To say that he had missed the man would have seemed too sentimental; the doctor was simply excited for his patient's return.

"Your CELL phone, John. Why have it if you can't be bothered to carry it on you?" John was forced to hide his smile as the equally agitated detective (who seemed to be battling a migraine caused in part to a severe allergic reaction, probably to the cottage cheese concoction in the fridge, nicotine withdrawal, and a lack of sleep) pushed past him to stand at the opposite side of the kitchen table. John now busied himself making tea, delighted for the opportunity to try his newest attempt to create a true medicinal herbal tea. The complexity of crafting a delicate brew which was both pleasing to the palate and contained various medically sound properties was a recent fascination for the doctor and Sherlock's migraine seemed the perfect test.

"John when I ask a question I do expect some sort of response." Sherlock's silent approach surprised John and the tea nearly suffered for it as he jumped involuntarily, rattling the cups and jolting the kettle nearly off the burner entirely. He turned, cheeks ruddy and heart pounding from the sudden influx of adrenaline only to find his cheeks flushing and heart racing for an altogether different reason. Sherlock had somehow managed to round the table and was now standing so close to John that the latter could feel the extreme heat radiating from the former. He frowned; though the detective usually ran hot (could also eat just about anything and gain little to no weight thanks to a hyperactive metabolism), he seemed hotter than usual, feverish even. John now saw the fever and flu baking beneath the migraine and silently cursed. How had he missed something like that? Sherlock, however, continued to loom over him, arms crossed and eyes unnaturally bright, and John remembered that he'd just been asked a question. Doing his best to make his actions appear natural, John once again turned his back to the detective. The butterflies could only be a lingering effect from the sudden surprise, and had nothing to do with how close the man was to him.

"Yes yes, I heard you. It was dead this morning and I must have left it here charging when I left." His hands flew in front if him as he adjusted the tea in Sherlock's cup.

"I still don't see why you are...working, John."

"Well Sherlock, despite the fact that the rest of the world believes I am your housewife, I am actually a productive member of society. It is expected of me, should I wish to retain my dignity. I'm also," He paused, swallowing back the word "lonely" and settled for another one. "Bored. It's boring here during most days." The water was perfect and the adjusted tea was ready in Sherlock's favorite mug. John had been quite amused to find that Sherlock would ingest almost anything if it were presented in said mug. John poured their water into each separately measured cup and was rewarded almost instantly with the smell of peppermint and rose.

"That smells...pleasant. What is it?" Right behind him; Sherlock was leaning over his shoulder and his face was level with John's.

"Err, a rose mint blend by-"

"Hummmm..." John froze; Sherlock had flopped over even further and now his face had settled in the crook of John's neck, on his right side. A hefty portion of the taller man's weight now rested on John and John was quite at a loss as to what to do. The heat radiating from the detective was overwhelming and though the doctor knew the man was clearly suffering from the onset of the flu, John found himself guiltily enjoying the close proximity. The butterflies were exploding in his belly and his throat was so constricted he was now finding it difficult to swallow. His skin was tingling and it was all he could do to keep from wriggling beneath the sudden weight.

"Err, Sherlock. You uh, feeling alright?" Nothing; his words were most certainly not breathy.

"Sherlock...?" A bit louder and still no response beyond the calm, consistent breathing against his neck. Not the first time Sherlock had invaded his personal space, perhaps, but certainly it was the first time that there did not appear to be an ulterior motive. He just seemed... Tired.

"Sherlock...did you fall asleep?" Yup, he had fallen asleep. The tea would take a moment to steep and this was a rare opportunity to study the often amped up detective. Bags under his eyes suggested both insomnia and enough vitamin deficiencies to make John's head spin. His skin was beyond pale and John knew that if he were to open Sherlock's eyes he would see the further degeneration. Not yet bad enough to cause the detective any alarm, though likely another root cause to the increasing frequency to his headaches. Though John seriously doubted if Sherlock would pay attention to anything less than an amputated limb.

Before he knew what he was doing, before a rational thought could float to the surface, John's left hand had floated free from the counter and was reaching for Sherlock over his shoulder. John's breathing was stilted, tiny gasps catching in his throat, and he knew there was no scientific inquiry here but he seemed incapable of stopping himself and good lord the curls were real and softer than they had any right to be. His heart was in his throat and his hands were still lightly gripping the detective's hair and yes his hand was sliding down towards his cheek and under his chin and yes he was slowly lifting the man's head moving so slowly he wasn't even sure he was doing and no he most definitely was not leaning over towards the man's upturned face and his eyes were not half-lidded and-

"John. Is that my phone?" Just as shocking as Sherlock's arrival had been, his voice, groggy and vibrating against John's hand as he spoke. John froze, unable to rip his gaze from Sherlock's mouth and that little crease between his eyes. Still, he gently lowered the consulting detective until his face once more rested against his shoulder. John was unable to hide his shiver and attempted to cover this with a violent clearing of his throat. The phone was, in fact, ringing from somewhere within the folds of Sherlock's coat, loud enough for John to wonder how he'd missed it. Without moving the detective began digging for it and, seconds after looking, immediately passed it to John. Still feeling vaguely shell shocked, the doctor gestured to the still steaming cup of tea on the counter before unlocking the phone and bringing it to his ear. He wondered if Sherlock could feel his flush. He wondered when the man would make some untoward comment, some horrifyingly embarrassing thing that would make him wish he could disappear. He wondered if he'd been aware of what John had been doing before the phone had started ringing. He wondered why he wasn't saying ANYTHING, damn it.

"Sherlock's phone, John speaking." Sherlock was now maneuvering himself, still draped not uncomfortably over John's shoulder in some seemingly impossible position, to politely sip his tea.

Silence on the other end. And then, "John. Give the phone to Sherlock. Please. Before you ask, I have some delicate information to discuss with him which I, unfortunately, cannot discuss with you."

"Lovely to hear from you, Mycroft. I do hope you are feeling better; that was quite a flu going around, wasn't it? Just a moment." It took nearly everything he had to keep his voice under check; Sherlock's proximity combined with the voice of a man whom John would rather not ever hear from were producing some conflicting things. Though not outwardly hostile, the relationship between John and Mycroft was hesitant at best and John preferred not to deal with the man whenever possible. He wondered often if he had discussed John's strangely spotless record with Sherlock or not. John covered the mouthpiece and tilted his head from where Sherlock was still hanging, half-empty cup dangling dangerously from his right hand.

"Sherlock."

"Tell Mycroft," A tiny hidden smirk at Sherlock's emphasis on his brother's name. "That I am deathly ill. Terribly, horrendously ill. Dying, even. Therefore there is no possible way I can do anything for him." He stood, swaying in a way that was entirely theatrical, and sashayed/limped his way to the couch. With just as much flourish as he was theatrical, he flopped to the couch, still holding his cup aloft. John's former belief of a case drawing Sherlock back seemed unfounded with Sherlock's lackadaisical efforts to move. With an exasperated sigh, John brought the phone back to his ear.

"Don't bother lying for him, Doctor Watson. Just tell him I will be there momentarily." The line went dead before John could respond. He found himself rolling his eyes to the ceiling and counting back from ten.

"Sherlock, Mycroft will be here in-"

"Less than six minutes if traffic is good... Do you think you could make me look as though I am on death's door in that span of time?" John was certain that his eyes were going to roll free from his head. Vaguely he wondered if he ought to bring up what had just occurred in the kitchen. Sherlock seemed unaffected; it was unlikely then that he had even noticed. Shelving this, John inhaled deeply before continuing.

"Sherlock, what does he want?"

"What makes you think I have any idea what the git wants?"

"Because you always know what he wants."

"That is absolutely not the case. I'm just good at guessing when he wants specific things." John snorted.

"You do not guess, Sherlock, now what does he want?" Sherlock sighed, the sound of a genius dealing with an idiot, but said nothing more. John, recognizing that Sherlock was slipping into one of his moods, made his way from the kitchen and into the living room where he settled into the easy chair adjacent the couch. Where Sherlock had indeed curled up, facing the back of said couch.

"Sherlock, come on, you could at least prepare me for whatever he's going to bring in here." Another heavy, dramatic sigh as the detective twisted around until he was laying on his back, legs dangling off the end of the couch.

"What he wants is of no consequence. Investigate a death, a boring, boring, BORING death. Silly politics and a pointless request." John simply nodded, leaning back in the chair and lifting his laptop as he awaited the inevitable knock on the door.

The knock, surprisingly, did not come. Hours passed with Sherlock dozing on the couch and John putting the finishing touches on his blog, something he'd found himself invested in after their caseload began to garner attention. There was no call and just as John was beginning to feel the tendrils of sleep tugging at his eyes, his nose flared. Drooping eyes flashed open and pure adrenaline flooded his system. He nearly leapt from the chair, heart racing as he grabbed for Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock, get up, now." His voice was low, strained as he pulled Sherlock up. "We need to leave now, RIGHT now, get UP Sherlock!"

"John, what-"

"NOW! SHERLOCK! GET UP!" John had enough time to be thankful that Mrs. Hudson was out visiting as he dragged a now conscious but still confused Sherlock from the building.

Just in time to avoid the explosion that rocked the street.

OoOoOoO

It took the police and fire department the greater part of the early evening and following day to track the source of the explosion; an apparent natural gas leak in the building across the way. They had gotten off lucky; the damage was minimal. A shattered window, some scratched up glass and a smell which would forever set John's nerves on edge. Honestly, John felt a little silly after for his violent reaction but, considering that he'd had no idea where the natural gas was emanating from, he allowed himself this mistake.

Things were, however, quite disrupted by the destruction on the street; not only was the fire department out in extraordinary numbers, the police department had honed in on Sherlock and was questioning the duo relentlessly. Their stupidity was shocking and by the time Lestrade had intervened Sherlock had left the building and was on the phone with his brother. John caught up with him after a few words with Lestrade; it did not take long for him to round on John.

"How did you know?"

"Know what? The explosion?" He was distracted, trying to figure out a way to recommend that Sherlock take some ibuprofen to aide the headache John knew was coming for them both and so did not hear the accusatory tone in the man's voice.

"YES, John, the EXPLOSION." John's eyes narrowed.

"I have a sensitive nose, Sherlock. I could smell it, the gas I mean."

"It was across the street; nobody can smell something from that far away. It's physically impossible."

"Oh, sure, it's impossible because me setting up an explosion is far more PLAUSIBLE, am I right Sherlock?" The implication was not missed and John was suddenly seeing red. Without another word the doctor stalked off, heading in the opposite direction from the foul tempered detective. Fury could not even come close to what he felt at being accused of blowing up that stupid building. How the hell would SHERLOCK know what HE was capable of? Oh, of course, John was JUST like everyone else and was the exact opposite of UNIQUE. Somehow he knew that to be as angry as he was at that moment was stupid and childish yet… John could not move past the indignant hurt he felt when remembering the accusative tone.

Underneath it all John knew he needed to calm down just…calm…down. Physically he was as alone as he felt mentally and before long his feet took him to a place he had not been for quite some time.

He sat and he did not move from the bench he had once thought of as his bench for some time. People around him came and went, surges of life in all different formats, living and breathing and moving, all coalescing and combining into a symphony greater than anything Mozart had ever crafted. The doctor could find comfort here, forgotten and ignored amidst the irregular ebb and flow of the busy park paths.

Until his phone buzzed deep within the folds of his coat, shattering his attempt at inner peace. He couldn't even remember grabbing the infernal device. Hours had passed and the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky. Frowning, he removed the offensive device to see he had twenty missed calls (all before he had returned to the flat, all from Sherlock) and fifteen missed texts, all but two time stamped before he had returned from work. Thankfully, no new voicemails. The texts, however ran the gambit from first inquisitive then to agitated and then to Sherlock's special brand of anger as he had demanded responses from John. He sighed and opened up the more recent ones. The first contained an address with a brief, 'Be here in fifteen minutes' message. The second was a please.

John inhaled, filling his lungs in a painfully slow way. He exhaled the same way, letting his anger flow out along with his breath. Two more and he was calm enough to stand. The address was familiar and as he began his trek, he realized it was only a block away from where he was. He hoped there might be a fresh pair of clothes wherever he was going.

OoOoOoO

His everything hurt.

Yes, It was a far cry from his typical medical analysis of pain yet it seemed like the only thing that fit. His everything…hurt.

His head ached; his tongue was too thick and he was certain not only that he had a lump on the back of his head but that he had been drugged. His mind refused to race. It was as though his thoughts were blanketed in a thick layer of fog and he was having a difficult time remembering what had happened. He felt neither blindfold nor bag over his head; his latent claustrophobic tendencies told him he was in a room just big enough for him to stretch out. After another moment he realized he was lying on his side; attempting to use his hands to push himself up proved futile. Both arms were pins and needles, bound behind his back. Shifting himself backwards helped him locate a wall, which he used to push and prop himself up. This took far more effort than it should have and his cotton filled head pounded with a steady, dull ache. He found his legs to be bound at the ankles, just as his wrists were bound at the wrist. It felt like heavy twine, thick and itchy with very little give when he flexed his muscles. Breathing heavily he tried to take an inventory of himself, attempting to simultaneously calm himself and figure out if he was seriously injured.

The pain he felt in his head was not isolated there; his entire body hurt. It was, however, the pain of being tied up and shoved into a tiny space. He did not feel like he had been hit anywhere besides the back of his head where the tacky, sticky feel of what could only be blood had dripped down along the back of his neck. His inability to make out anything in what he was dubbing the closet made it difficult to truly orient himself. In the end, presented with all the evidence, he was forced to come to but one conclusion.

He, Doctor John H Watson, had been kidnapped. Again.

Feeling significantly calmer (considering the circumstances), he closed his eyes out of habit and tried to remember.

The text. It had all started with the text. He had thought he'd remembered the location and he had been correct. The address was close to the warehouse Mycroft had originally taken John but far nicer and a few blocks away. It had been, if John were not mistaken, one of many offices. He remembered getting close to the building. He could remember LOOKING at the damn thing, seeing it from the street over.

He could remember feeling like someone was watching him. And then feeling like someone was following him. Pain. He remembered pain and-

"Wakey, wakey, Doctor Watson! Eggs and bakey, time to get up!" The door was flung open and light flooded in, stinging his eyes and momentarily blinding him. Instinctively he turned from the door, attempting to protect himself from whoever was now standing there. When his vision cleared he saw... Jim? Molly's boyfriend? Blinking away his blindness he saw that he was correct. They had met almost a week ago and, if John remembered correctly, had hit on Sherlock by slipping him a phone number. John had felt both insulted and jealous and had placed these emotions away for another time.

"What-?" Pain erupted in his stomach, spittle flying from his mouth as Jim's foot connected with his torso. Before he knew what was happening he was dragged from the closet and into what looked like an office. The sharp scent of chlorine hit him; the smell of people and the image of a public pool came to mind. With more strength than the man should have had, John was hoisted up and flung onto a rolling chair. The man leaned forward immediately, gripping the chair's armrests. He brought his face close to John's, close enough for them to kiss, noses just brushing as Jim's eyes bored down into John's.

"So." He pressed in even closer, the man's eyes now mere inches from his own. "You are John. Hamish. Watson. Hm. I don't believe it. You just look so...boring." It struck John then that this was the man. Weeks prior Sherlock had been tasked by a faceless, nameless individual to save strangers from a set of explosives attached to each person. Cases so cold and so strange that the police had pushed them beyond the darkest corner of lost time and Sherlock, in a brilliant display of…brilliance had solved each and every one within the time frames. Sherlock had been suspicions of the sudden silence of said individual after Sherlock had solved the fifth and final case set before him and now John was starting to believe Sherlock was correct. And he, this Jim, was just. Like. Sherlock. John could feel the blood drain from his face and, for the first time since he had regained consciousness, his mind snapped back into place and he saw what the man was trying to show him. He said nothing, jaw clenched in silence as he watched the mirth slip from the man's gaze. Quick as a lightning strike he pulled back and struck John, breaking his nose and unleashing a torrent of blood, which flowed heavily down his face. John did little more than grunt, head whipping to the side from the force of the strike.

"Prove it, Watson. Tell me who you are. Prove to me that you're actually the one our precious little government spent all their time trying to hide." John prayed the man would not hit him again. If he did not, then John would not have to say anything for the man to find his proof. Already the back of his head was healing, an accelerated rate which, should the man bother checking-

"Let's have a look, shall we?" He fought, but Jim was stronger than a heavily drugged John. John found his head bowed over, and then the man was brushing his fingers through the back of his hair, the touch as delicate as a caress.

"John, may I call you John? John, do you have any idea how long ago I gave you that bump on your head?" He whipped John's head back, hand now tightly gripping the short hairs at the back of still slightly sore head. "Come on, now, you know your own body pretty well! And look, your nose has already stopped bleeding! When. Did. I. Hit. Your. Head?" Each word was emphasized with a not so gentle shake of his head.

"Less than ten minutes ago." He finally acknowledged, realizing that the man had done more than the lion's share of research. Jim pushed back his sleeve, eyes sparkling under the lights as he studied his watch.

"Well done, Johnny boy. It was exactly ten minutes ago that I bashed your head right about in." The man looked as though he had just found the Christmas presents early. "I really have found you. Months of work... And here you are." From some corner he pulled out another rolling chair that he slid in front of John and sat down on. For nearly a full minute, the blood drying uncomfortably on his face, the two just stared at one another. John was tempted to speak up. To say something and get whatever this man intended to do to him over with. But he resisted, breathing calmly and maintaining eye contact. Even this was a difficulty; the man's reason for finding him was as clear as day and almost painful to look at.

"How long have I got, Johnny boy? Hm?" The man reclined in his chair, crossing his ankles on his outstretched leg.

"Less than a year. I would guess eight months, since you've foregone treatment." John licked at his lips, grimacing as the taste of blood flooded his mouth.

"Also correct! Can you tell how big it is? Where it is?" John felt sick. The man's enthusiasm did not bode well for the doctor.

"What do want from me? Did you want to keep playing games all night?" Another blow rocked the doctor's head; the man had crossed the short distance and hit him directly in the eye before John could even begin turning his head.

"I am not a patient man, John. Easily amused? Yes. Patient? Not so much. Answer my questions or I will beat you to a pulp, it's as simple as that." He snickered as he sat back down. "I mean as long as your heart keeps beating you'll keep on healing, right? Or was it your brain…? Now. How big is it. And where is it?" The last blow had cracked his eye socket and belatedly he determined that this man was wearing knuckles.

"Well, Jim,"

"Moriarty. Please, I would prefer if you called me Moriarty. Us not quite being on proper terms you SHOULD call me Mr. Moriarty but… I'll let that slide."

"Moriarty. I would guess that the tumor, lung cancer which metastasized to your brain, is almost four inches around and across, located deep within the temporal lobe. It went undetected for far too long be because you had always had headaches and you thought these were just that, normal headaches. They found the softball completely by accident. Your headaches were no longer responding to medication. That wasn't strange but when you started losing time, waking disoriented on your floor at all hours of the day and night you broke down and went in-" This time the hit struck his stomach, knocking the wind from him.

"I answered your question. Or do you want more of the specifics? Like how you exploded when you saw that dark lump imbedded deep in your brain and destroyed the lab and killed the tech who helped you?" He wheezed, hunched over in his chair as the pain wracked his body. The second blow nearly knocked him from his chair, momentarily dislocating his jaw which he remedied with a quick jerk of his mouth, and John suddenly had an idea.

"Yeah. But now you're just showing off." Moriarty smirked as he returned to his seat. "Questions?"

"I won't bother asking what you want from me, or why me."

"Good!"

"Why Sherlock? Why...all of this? Why the bombs and the cases and all of it?"

"Really?" Moriarty's grin widened as he reclined in his chair. "You must be an idiot savant. Your brilliance does not extend beyond medicine, does it? Poor thing." Silently seething John did little more than grind his teeth, ignoring the familiar itch of bone stitching together present in both his nose and eye socket.

"You see, Johnny, that friend of yours intrigues me. I've been trying to figure out whether or not he sees your abilities, any of your abilities, or whether you are simply so beneath him that he hasn't bothered looking." Moriarty, still smiling crossed his legs and leaned forward, supporting his head in his upturned right hand.

"But let me guess; you thought he was just. Like. You. Aren't you just the cutest thing?" John tried to hide the pain this caused him and succeeded only in dulling his pain into a grimace.

"You haven't answered my questions."

"Oh sure, sure. You see, Johnny boy, despite being an idiot savant, Sherlock seems to consider you much like a small child. He keeps careful tabs on you, him and his brother of course. Both for different reasons, of course. It took some time to send you that little text message and even longer to ensure that you had not been followed. You see, this little game does two things for me. I get to play with Sherlock; figure out what he's made of and what he's capable of." He stood, stretching his arms up Moriarty kicked away his chair and resumed speaking.

"And I finally get ahold of the legend. My salvation, if you will! Granted I couldn't get to the root of your secrecy, hidden beneath all that red tape. Not yet anyway. I have a program running on your files as we speak. But it's not important. To surmise: I am dying, you are going to fix my problem or I am going to kill Harriet, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson…and eventually, after as much pain as I can cause you, you. Hell, maybe I'll go on a spree and blow up a couple buildings, destroy some subways… Make you watch. " John could not contain his mirth and within seconds he was laughing hysterically.

"Do you really think he isn't already on his way? Are you insane or just stupid? Or perhaps that nasty ball of cancer deep inside your brain is putting just the right amount of pressure on the area which controls-" A swift jab to his throat left John gagging and dry heaving in his chair.

"You seem to find something amusing, John. Do you want to explain to the class why the softball, as you put it, is so amusing?" Moriarty lashed out with his foot, overturning the chair John sat on, sending the still gagging man to he floor. The impact snapped his jaws together and John was thankful he had withdrawn his tongue. His idea, his horrible, brilliant idea was working. The man was intelligent, yes, but touchy. Words from someone who for once knew what they were talking about, from someone who knew the true extent of the man's coming demise, pressed his buttons like no physical harm could. If he could push them, all of his buttons, perhaps Moriarty would kill him now. Sherlock would find the man before any real damage could be done to friends or family, John was sure of that.

Because that was all John could do. If the man figured out his research...figured out what he had created. What was now coursing through his body, pumping through his veins as thick and strong as his own blood... Nobody would be safe, least of all himself. John had ceased his research early after his own experimenting had nearly gotten himself killed. He was thankful that none of his later work had been recorded, but if this psycho figured out what he had really been working on... It would not stop at the tumor, nor the healing powers locked within his DNA. He would push. Telekinesis, mind reading, hell, flight; they were reasonable goals for this doctor, should research become his first priority and money no longer an issue. Having left the world of medicine originally for the same reason, John sensed his freedom now being infringed upon and would rather die than be used. Ever.

"Oh no reason. Tell me, have you started vomiting? Has the disorientation really settled in? Have you woken up soaked in vomit and urine, so out of control and confused after a grand mal seizure that all you could do was cry and wish you had someone to hold you-" This time the blows were consistent for nearly two minutes. John felt his ribs crack, felt one of them puncture his lung. It was a grievous injury but not life threatening for him unless the damage was kept consistent. His organs were bruised and John was wondering how much more abuse they would take, and was the bastard wearing steel-toed boots? All the while pain lanced through his body. Each exhalation produced more and more evident flecks of blood. By the time the psycho had stopped John was coughing up globules of the stuff, his breath rattling in his chest as he tried to draw in air. Out of breath and red faced Moriarty leaned down and brought John's face close to his own, gripping John's hair as leverage.

"You think I'm going to push you too far? Hoping for it?" He barked a laugh and dropped John's head less than gently onto the floor. "Keep dreaming, John. Your files may be locked up pretty tight but your military record…not so much. Based off of your records after that nasty bullet wound to your chest you don't die easy. I know just about how much damage you can take, Doctor Watson." There was the distinct sinking feeling in the pit of John's stomach, mind immediately attempting to reroute his previous plan. There were only a few potential paths the next couple of hours could take. None of them looked positive.

"Listen, Moriarty," John gasped, shifting himself to relieve the pressure on his ribs. "There is…literally nothing you can do to make me resume my research. All that red tape protecting my file…even if you get through it, my research won't be there. It was never recorded. I was too careful for that." The man seemed to pause momentarily, considering this as he tapped his foot and pressed a single finger to his lips.

"I suppose that means torture… It's been a long time but-" A loud, persistent beeping floated up from somewhere in Moriarty's pockets. He frowned as he searched for it, clearly irritated at having been interrupted mid-sentence. After a moment he removed what looked like a cell phone and proceeded to poke and prod at the screen. His face lit up and John felt instantaneously sick. That look on this psychopath could mean only one thing.

"We've got COMPANY, Johnny boy! Looks like Sherlock found us a little faster than I thought he would."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hello faithful readers and welcome to chapter 4 of FIPN! Thank you for the kind words and constructive assistance of the reviewers. I appreciate each and every one of you; your words encourage me! This chapter gave me the biggest trouble when writing; I had the end planned and then suddenly things changed, as they are wont to do in the world of fiction, and I ended up with something totally different than I had planned. In any case, I hope you all enjoy chapter 4. Thanks again for reading!_

A scientifically fascinating but altogether fictional polymorph of water first explored in Vonnegut's "Cat's Cradle", ice-9 explores the possibilities and consequences to life should the melting point of water shift from 0 degrees Celsius to 45.8. Roughly this translates 114.4 degrees F. When accidentally released in the novel via an explosion and some terribly ironic luck, the ice-9 comes into contact with the nearby ocean and in the matter of a few days the majority of life is extinguished. The brilliant and bored young John Watson, fascinated with Vonnegut's tale of dark science fiction early on in his research, inspired and caused a series of firsts.

In the matter of two days, aided by an extremely generous research fund and center, young John came to the shocking discovery that creating DNA mutations (the likes of which science and Vonnegut had only dreamt of) was a possibility. This lead eventually to his one and only instance of human experimentation. As much of an accident as the dark side of this coin, his not so horrific discovery would save his life when down the road he took a bullet to the heart. He often reflected on the humor of his discovery, which he referred to as "RBC-X." The compound was not, in and of itself, humorous. The method with which it had first entered his bloodstream, however, was. Regardless, the introduction of RBC-X to his body had had numerous effects to his physiology including the honing of his baser senses and an accelerated regeneration of both wounds and illnesses. Through a series of somewhat painful experiments he had discovered that his body would react to excessive damage with a greater amount of regeneration. And boy could he see the possibilities.

Simultaneously John had discovered his first mistake and his first, and only, weapon. The concept was much the same as the fictional ice-9. Invasive and utterly malignant, it functioned and operated in the same manner. Blood, however, is something entirely different though both are in essence liquids. Water, for all intents and purposes, is just that: Water. Blood, on the other hand, is comprised of two primary components; various cells (including white and red blood cells and platelets, which help the blood cells clot), and blood plasma, which is what the blood cells float in. Typically, the flow of blood allows oxygen to flow throughout the body. It helps keep the body healthy by clotting at the sites of wounds and removing carbon dioxide as the body produces it. To put it mildly, blood is one of the most essential components in the human body.

Childishly deemed "RBC-2", standing for Red Blood Cell-2, John had in fact created something capable of destroying a fully-grown adult man in less than two hours. Not only was the mortality rate perfect it was also highly contagious. It took only a drop to infect another body. With healthy, functioning red blood cells, oxygen is carried throughout the body to each cell, removing the carbon dioxide as the cells devour the oxygen. When RBC-2 is introduced to the body the red blood cells become necrotic. They cease carrying oxygen and instead become worse than useless. They begin to destroy everything they touch, killing each organ and causing the body to shut down. But what made RBC-2 truly perfect, a unique work of art, was the complete perfection of it. It would first infect a single cell, and then destroy it completely and totally. And then it would spread, doubling, then doubling each doubled cell. It seemed simple, too simple to be so deadly. The larger a creature the longer it took; thankfully John did not have the experiments to prove the rate of degeneration in a human adult but the math was simple enough. Hence the two hour window.

It had not taken John long to discover the true horror of his accidental creation. For the first time since he had been given his grant and free reign to do as he wished, John went straight to his government. After all, considering the level of surveillance he had been placed under, they would have come for him soon enough. It took three rabbits and a cat to prove the danger involved to those who saw the weapon of war in John's discovery of his pathogen and to have his records buried deep and all evidence of his research destroyed. There were exactly six people who knew of Doctor Watson's discovery. Three had served on the board, which had agreed to destroy his work. The other three had worked with him and had, on pain of death, been sworn to secrecy. As far as John had been concerned, his research had become little more than a dark dream.

OoOoOoO

Lying painfully, awkwardly trussed up on the floor, staring up into the calm, delighted face of his kidnapper, John was wondering how much of his research had been destroyed and hidden. And somewhere, wandering purposely, silently through the building was the man who whom John called his flat mate. No, that was wrong. Somewhere was the man he called a friend. And his friend was about to be dragged into a horrid, horrid mess. Before he could redirect his plans, Moriarty had him by his wrist restraints and was hoisting John back up into a sitting position on the floor. A stilted gasp escaped his mouth as his still mending ribs and heart were jolted together; he was already regenerating at an accelerated rate to compensate for the level of abuse. This, in turn, was beginning to exhaust him.

"I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Johnny boy," That sinking feeling in the pit of stomach was filling with static.

"Wait, wait, let me guess-," Moriarty's patience was waning, John discovered, as the man's foot connected with his still healing ribs. Blood flew from John's mouth in a fine spray and the doctor was vaguely delighted that he had ruined the well-dressed psycho's tie.

" I did find an interesting little recipe. Or, rather, I uncovered some hints and found a few interns from your past… See, now, I couldn't quite get everything RIGHT. I mean, I am ridiculously brilliant but your medical expertise far outweighs my own. Hell, it even outweighed your interns! So," He stood, pacing slowly over to a cabinet near the door. John followed him with his eyes, panting involuntarily as pain burned in his chest. He watched as the man rummaged through an unseen bag in the top shelf, humming cheerfully all the while. After a moment he turned, holding what looked like a revolver, a. 22 most likely, held in his left hand and a few bullets in his right. Moriarty sauntered back to the prone John who was doing everything in his power to both stay awake and remain aware. He hadn't even realized he'd begun to drift off until he felt the hand in his hair, jerking his head upright.

"Come now, Doctor Watson! No time for a nap now, the fun has yet to begin." John's gaze was drawn invariably to the gun in Moriarty's hand, watching as he loaded the weapon.

"You didn't. It's not possible." John croaked, shifting against his bonds and sending shooting pain through his chest. Another coughing fit took him; blood flew from his mouth, spattering across the floor. Some dark corner of his mind wondered if the room would look like a disco under a black light by the time Moriarty had finished with him. Cold fingers wrapped across his mouth, squeezing his cheeks against his teeth and undeniably forcing his attention back to the man staring directly into his eyes from only a few inches away.

"Stay with me, Johnny boy," He cooed, his grip loosening and becoming something like a caress, fingers beneath his chin and holding his head aloft.

"This may not be as perfect as your serum; after all, only two of your three technicians died. The other was just horrifically disfigured and crippled for life. But hey, two out of three isn't too terrible for my first try, right?" The blood had fully dried down the front of John's face and it was now terribly itchy and for some reason that was all he seemed capable of focusing on because acknowledging that his interns, each with their families and lives and living completely separate of him, had been killed because of him.

"You know that won't kill me. I mean, I suppose if you use all six bullets…and you put them directly into my brain…or my heart…maybe if you had TRIED a little harder... Oh, but you're not ACCUSTOMED to imperfection, are you... I'm really rubbing my OBVIOUSLY inferior salt in your SUPERIOR wound, aren't I?" He expected more abuse and was not disappointed as Moriarty's fist connected with his still aching belly. More blood and now the world was swimming in front of his eyes. It had been a very long time since his body had been pushed so far in such a short time and not for the first time John wondered if Moriarty were testing him, poking and prodding at his so-called weak points, trying to determine just what they were. He wondered how much Moriarty had been able to glean from what files he had uncovered. He wondered why his government had not done more to protect him, to protect his interns. He wondered how much more of this he could take.

The beeping, which had faded into the background, had returned in the form of a loud, persistent ringing. The device in Jim Moriarty's pocket was going off again and John had the sick feeling that stage two…or three or perhaps six because trying to understand what was going through the madman's mind was like trying to wade through a swap of insanity, was about to begin. And then John heard the one thing he had hoped he would never hear. It was faint, far off and were it not for the slow, devious smile snaking its' way across Moriarty's face he would have believed it to be a hallucination.

"I know you're here!" Sherlock's voice sounded clearer the second time than it should have and in John's roughly drawn diagram of the pool put the office they were in to be perpendicular to the pool. He was only aware that Moriarty had been studying him when the man began to chuckle. The hand that held his chin moved up to his cheek, cupping his face and bringing his gaze and focus back to the current problem at hand. Said current problem was grinning; his opposite hand had left John's hair and was once more gripping the revolver.

"I'm sure you, even with your LIMITED INTELLIGENCE, know where this whole thing is going, hmm?" Something cold brushed against John's left cheek and his eyes fluttered as he silently flinched away from the revolver's barrel.

"But just in case you still don't get it, DOCTOR Watson… You're going to fix my problem. Cure me, as it were! You're going to remove this tumor. You're going to solve my little malignant problem or I'm going to shoot that idiotic "consulting detective" right in the leg. He'll have approximately three hours before he either dies a horrible, painful death or turns into a shriveled lump of human. So, really, it's all you, Doc!" John's nausea had returned full force and he was very much hoping that he might get sick all over Moriarty's fantastic suit. The lunatic had not stopped touching his face and now his eyes were bright with a frightening intensity that caused every retort, every possible argument to die in John's throat.

"You wouldn't; you find him too fascinating."

"Ohhh, that I do, Johnny Boy. I find him simply irresistible! Or I did…until they found that tumor. Until I found you, Doctor Watson. Now, listen, you have an opportunity here. A fantastic one. You can come with me of your own, somewhat free, will. Where I will treat you better than SHERLOCK ever did. I mean, if you have to be someone's pet why not be the pet of someone who knows what you're REALLY capable of?" He smiled and stood suddenly, leaving John's head to droop back down nearly to his chest. John took the brief moment to reflect on the insulating and creepy comment.

"To top it all off, DOCTOR Watson, I'm willing to bet I'm much more exciting and far better in bed than that old stick in the mud." Despite his exhaustion, his pain, John still managed to flush a deep red and raise his head defiantly to the mad man.

"I…am not… GAY, Moriarty." There was humor buried in this conversation and it took everything John had to resist the giggles bubbling up from deep within. The man waved his hand dismissively, pacing absently around the room.

"Semantics, John. Semantics. Regardless, you don't need to give me your answer here." John's eyes narrowed, a snarl suddenly taking over his face as Moriarty strode around behind John and grabbed at the collar of his jacket.

"He's smarter than that, Moriarty, he won't have come alone."

"Of COURSE he came alone, Johnny! The GREAT SHERLOCK has no need for something as unnecessary as back up. Oh! Almost forgot." Moriarty released John and the doctor teetered back and forth before landing harshly on his left side. Before he could right himself Moriarty did it for him, jerking him first up into a sitting position where he shoved a dirty rag into John's mouth, and then to his feet, snarling at John to move his ass until he managed to stand. He gagged twice on the rag, the smell of wood polish and dirt filling his nose and doing nothing good for his nausea. He had only a moment to acknowledge this invasion of his senses before he was shoved through the door Moriarty jerked open. His hands were still bound behind his back and just above where they were resting Moriarty had shoved the revolver's barrel. He did not fear the weapon but feeling it there made it impossible to forget the danger his flat mate, his friend, now faced. Not for the first time, John found himself regretting that he had troubled Sherlock with his life.

His estimated location of the office had been fairly accurate. The door Moriarty shoved him through led to a short hallway. To the right it appeared to go straight for several feet before turning sharply to the left. To the left it moved out towards the undeniable scent of chlorine and the minute sounds of water lapping at the side of a wall. He could hear, too, the light steps of the consulting detective as he entered further into the pool house. The gun was digging painfully into his back, urging him onward. He shuffled forward, eyes flicking this way and that, looking desperately for some way out, some alternative route or option. It wasn't until they were nearly at the poolside, when John could see the pool itself that he threw himself backwards. With every last ounce of energy he fought against the hand at his neck and dismissed the gun jammed into his back and he fought for Sherlock's life. He almost thought he was winning, too, until he felt a shoe against his back and he was flying forward. With a nearly muffled grunt John landed with the grace of a car accident, skidding nearly into the pool itself before he stopped. There was a painful, pregnant silence for what felt like eons before finally John was able to lift his head.

And there he was. Standing there. Frozen. Staring down at him from the opposite end of the pool, tense even beneath his coat, Sherlock had in fact come to find him. And he had, in fact, come alone. It was easy to see from the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed and the way his chest expanded with a sharp intake of breath that he looked even worse than he felt. Moriarty had done a number on him and it hadn't even occurred to him that there might be some physical indication of this.

"John." The detective took a step forward only to be stopped as Moriarty strolled out from the same hallway, holding up his hand and indicating a clear no to the detective.

"Stay right there, Sherlock." He produced the gun or so John was led to believe as Sherlock's forward momentum halted.

"Moriarty, I presume. What do you-,"

"I know this might be HARD for you to BELIEVE, Sherlock. But this actually has very little to do with you. Sure we had some fun, but it's time for some serious grown up talk." John's face twisted behind the gag and despite his inability to speak he screamed at the man to leave. He tried to tell Sherlock to go with every fiber of his physical and verbal being. He knew Sherlock understood; he saw the minute change in his expression, echoed in his actions as Sherlock stood up straight and narrowed his now icy eyes at Moriarty.

"What does this have to do with John, then. Must be pretty important to have bloodied him up so much." Moriarty laughed, the sound reverberating against the walls of the pool house.

"You are ONLY HERE, Sherlock, because I need you…to get what I want…from HIM." He punctuated the end of his sentence with a full-blown kick into John's stomach, nearly sending him into pool with the force of the blow.

"If you touch him again, Moriarty, I will end you. These games have been…fascinating but I will not allow this." Moriarty said nothing and instead yanked John up into a sitting position, holding his head up with a hand in his hair. John could not help the warmth blossoming in his chest; maybe he was just a nematode but he was SHERLOCK'S nematode and somehow this made it all okay. John's vision was swimming, fading in an out leaving Sherlock as the only solid object in his view. He tried to focus on the man, tried to use his image to keep himself awake and aware. Beside him, the sound of the hammer being pulled back and locking into place was as distinct a sound as his own breathing and for the first time since he had awoken in that closet, John Hamish Watson was terrified. Some sane, rational part of his mind tried to tell him that Moriarty had only .22 rounds. That there was nothing special about them and that there was no possible way that he had gotten his hands on any of John's research. If he shot Sherlock the man would bleed but John could fix a bleed.

But those eyes…so bright and dancing with a light as malignant as his tumor. John could no longer struggle against his bonds; he was beyond the point of exhaustion, unable to even attempt an escape at this point.

"How about it, Johnny boy? This is your last chance; if you continue to refuse me I'll end this little game and start a whole new world of destruction. All in your good name." John's reply was muffled behind his gag and with a laugh that suggested he had forgotten John could not speak, the mad man removed the gag and pulled John's head back so that he could meet his gaze, all the while waving the revolver in around in the air.

"I-I can't. I have none of my own records; the level of research I would have to do, the time it would take to do it…you won't-" A sharp jerk of his head silenced him but even from the corner of his eye John could not miss the shift in Sherlock's posture and stance. He may not understand fully what was happening but he would soon.

"Oh come now, Doctor. I'm sure you have your wiley little ways. I won't ask you again; answer me now. Or Sherlock dies. Here. Now." The revolver was pointed unwaveringly at the consulting detective again and now John was left with his only option. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the constant dull ache in his ribs as his breathing began to hitch in his chest, John bit the metaphorical bullet, slumping in defeat under Moriarty's hand.

"Don't kill him. I'll do it."

"John; whatever you've just promised him isn't worth my life." John said nothing as Moriarty made some affirmative noise in his throat, releasing the hammer gently and whisking the offensive weapon from John's sight.

"Well DONE, John, you made the RIGHT choice. Now YOU, Mr. Consulting Detective. You're going to stay. Right. There." As though he had planned every second of this, six laser-guided sights appeared suddenly on Sherlock's body.

"As long as you don't move, you'll be just fine, Sherlock. John and I, however, have somewhere we simply must be right about now. So if you'll EXCUSE us." With that same freakish strength Moriarty yanked John to his feet and keeping John between Sherlock and himself, began back-stepping the way they had emerged.

"Oh, and, Sherlock?" John tried not to cringe as Moriarty's leaned forward, pressing his cheek against John's and smiling. "Don't try to find your little pet. See, I've just bought him with your life making him MY pet. And I don't share, Sherlock. I never share." John's stomach was now turning from more than just the residual taste of the gag in his mouth. The last thing John saw as they turned the corner was his flat-mate, eyes narrowed, hands clenched and teeth bared in a look that was nothing short of feral.

His last thought conscious thought, however, was something along the lines of, "What in the hell have I just done?" There was the prick of a needle, a rush of cold, and John Watson knew no more.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Welcome, dear readers, to my fifth and final chapter of FIPN! I've worked many a day on this tale and I appreciate, more than you know, that you have read and enjoyed it thus far. I'm toying with ideas for sequels so, assuming I can work out an idea at some point, this may not be the end of this little creation. As strange as it's been, I've found myself somewhat enamored with my creepy little Moriarty. As always constructive criticisms and positive feedback are always loved and I have appreciated your kind words more than you know. So thank you, gentle readers, and please enjoy the final chapter of First Impressions and Preconceived Notions._

Time seemed to be growing consistently inconsistent for the doctor. John remembered leaving the pool. He remembered Sherlock, his face a myriad of fury and vengeance so strong that John was certain he would remember it forever. But for a while he was swimming through darkness; if he focused he thought maybe he felt the sting of a needle, a rush of ice through his veins. He faded in an out, rising and falling from consciousness as though carried effortlessly through a dark, cold stream. He remembered a car. A blind-fold. Voices. Moriarty speaking, screaming, speaking again.

His return to the world of the conscious was not as sudden as it should have been. It was more like slowly wading through a pool of thick cotton; soft and gentle. For nearly two full minutes, John could have been at 221B, waking from a long night of running through the streets of London to hear Sherlock...coming home…

Sherlock…

"Joooohhhhnnnn. Johnny boy, you've been asleep for nearly two days. Time to wake up, dearrrrr." John's eyes snapped open, adrenaline flooding his body causing him to sit upright all at once. Seconds passed while his vision cleared and when he could see once more he discovered that seeing was not necessarily a pleasant thing.

As a matter of fact, John couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He was lying in a bed, of that at least he was certain. The bed was positioned in a corner of a wide, spacious room. The lights remained dim above him but he could see from where he was that they were designed to be bright, glaring works of precision. The ceiling was as high as the room was wide and it made John feel very small. None of this was even close to odd when compared to what took up the majority of the room. Medical equipment. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical equipment lined the walls and filled any voids not taken on the tables. It was almost as though the bed had been a second thought; a realization by a mad man that John would need somewhere to sleep. That urge, the urge he hadn't felt in years and years, began to fill his mind and he found himself chewing just short of painfully on his lower lip. Quite suddenly, all John wanted to do was create. To test and experiment and to discover new things.

As though he'd known, somehow been able to read John's mind, Moriarty morphed in from the shadows, a look somewhere between anger and delight playing across his features.

"Seems the drugs didn't do IRREPERABLE damage to that precious brain of yours, Doctor Watson. Now what about your legs? Stand up, would you?" John's mouth went dry and he glanced at his legs, prone beneath the thin blanket thrown haphazardly over his lower torso. For a terrifying moment he wondered if there were even legs under the blanket. The look of impatience in Moriarty's eyes was growing stronger; John shifted himself up into a sitting position and threw the blankets off his legs as quickly as possible, going for the ripping off the band-aid effect.

Relief immediately flooded his system as he saw both legs fully intact and even clothed; this was greater intensified as he attempted to stand and found that he could. A strange pressure seemed locked around his ankle, something he hadn't noticed until he'd stood, and without thinking he bent over at the waist and tugged at his trouser leg, lifting it to find a device similar to one worn by criminals under house arrest wrapped securely around his calf.

"Ah ah ah, Doctor. Don't touch it. It doesn't like to be touched. Or tampered with. And it ESPECIALLY does not like to be removed. With that I know your whereabouts at all times. It administers an electric shock, the degree of which can be set low or extremely high, should you disobey or attempt to escape." He smiled, head tilted in a look of geniality that John found impossible to reconcile. "Of course, you wouldn't even try something so stupid would you? Not after you bought Sherlock's freedom by coming with me." It took a moment to swallow past the lump in his throat yet all he could manage was a half-hearted nod. He'd nearly forgotten how he'd come to be here and for what purpose he had been abducted. A small, stupid part of him continued to hold out hope that he was just dreaming; caught in a sub-reality where all nightmarish things may easily come to pass. An even tinier, even stupider part of him hoped that Sherlock would find him.

"Now…," Moriarty rubbed his hands together in front of him, a look bordering on insane flashing across his face. "It's about time you fix my little problem, hmm?"

Swallowing past an impossible lump in his throat, John managed another single nod as he brushed past Moriarty into the lab proper. Millions of thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind as his hands alighted on the delicate equipment, trying to ignore the tremble that ran through his very core. To be torn so completely between his urgent desire to create and discover and change and his desire to watch the sociopathic killer wither away under John's own created false hope…it was dizzying.

"Don't even think about it." John stiffened, not bothering to hide his look of disgust as Moriarty invaded his personal space, pressing into his back and murmuring softly in his ear.

"Think about what, exactly?" He shuddered as he felt the man chuckle against him, felt him lay his head against his back.

"About lying to me. I know you're the best; I wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to kidnap you if you weren't. But that doesn't stop me from bringing in my own team. They won't be pestering you, don't worry! They're just going to monitor my progress. Ensure that whatever you give me is actually working. And don't worry… I won't leave you alone for too long. I know you're more comfortable with constant companionship." Inwardly John cursed but he could not say he was surprised. The man was frustratingly brilliant; to expect anything less was to prove to be as stupid as Moriarty said he was. Suddenly the weight of the man was gone and the sound of heels clicking against tile was enough to get John to raise his head and turn around. He would be lying if he said the man's apparent departure wasn't somewhat terrifying; God only knew where he was off to, whose lives he intended to destroy. And that comment… He knew Moriarty was a strange case but the level of "creep" John was now experiencing was above and beyond what he had ever expected.

Sherlock sure as hell never acted so childishly possessive. The constant touching, the invasions of personal space… John's brief stint in the world of psychology was more than enough to see through Moriarty's obsession.

"Now get to work, pet." Without turning Moriarty raised his hand as though waving to John. A door opened on the opposite side of the lab and with little more than a snap of the fingers, John was alone, the door slamming decisively shut behind Moriarty. The sound of a lock slipping into place was just as distinctive as the sound of the door slamming and it did little more than add another weight to the immense load John now felt he was carrying.

Having dispensed with most of his options, Doctor Watson turned to his table and, as Moriarty had so eloquently ordered, got to work.

OoOoOoO

Days passed. John made great strides in dancing around a cure for Moriarty whilst appearing to edge towards said cure. Some time after he had initially been left alone he had been presented with what amounted to a sophisticated walkie-talkie. He was instructed by the plain-faced gentleman in a suit bearing said device that he was to use it to contact Moriarty should he "need" him for anything.

It wasn't until the fourth day that John could put it off no longer. He took a moment for himself, rubbing his eyes and passing his hand over the stubble growing on his cheeks. Sleep was random for the harrowed doctor and it seemed like ages since he'd felt safe enough for a solid eight hours of rest. Pushing back a yawn and giving his cold cup of half-filled coffee a baleful glance, John groped for the two-way radio and called for his captor.

"Find something, Johnny boy?" John's keen eyes did not miss the bags beneath his eyes, nor the twinge at the corner of them. The man was in immense, horrible pain; likely a migraine. The man's gaze seemed unfocused, despite the intensity of his gaze, and the harsh blinking suggested his gaze was fuzzy. His face was pale and the strong scent of mouthwash indicated that he had very recently vomited. In short, Moriarty looked like crap.

"I'm…not sure. I wanted to run an experiment and I am an invalid subject." The psychopath sighed and for a split second John felt a great pity for him; he looked so small standing on the other side of his table beneath the harsh glow of the overhead lights.

"Will it hurt?"

"No, not really. It's just a shot." Moriarty offered something like a sneer in response, lips drawing back to provide a look of disgust and irritation.

"Fine." He did not approach the table and with a sigh, John stood and began preparing the needle he had set aside with a substance that was nearly clear with only the slightest hint of blue, imperceptible for all but John's eyes. Once prepared John made his way to the other side of the table, all too aware of the unwavering hostile gaze from the man he now stood before.

"I'll…I'll need you to kind of…turn your…head." For a moment neither man moved. John simply stood there, hands gloved, syringe ready for use in his left hand. Moriarty, suited and stone-faced, did not tilt his head. Instead he smiled.

"Think wisely before you do whatever you're about to do. You may succeed in killing me but I will, in turn, ensure that every person you care about, every person you've EVER cared about, dies as well."

"Moriarty, you-," John stopped himself, trying to hold in whatever stupid, suicidal thing he had been about to say. He took a moment. Took a breath. And nodded, trying to keep his anger and upset from his face; the man was scared and under any other circumstance John would have tried to assuage said fear. But the man was his captor, his forced patient, and a part of him delighted in knowing that yes, he could stop his heart and watch him breathe his last should he so choose.

Moriarty tilted his head, and closed his eyes. The stiffening of his face, the setting of his shoulders, indicated the man's fear and John could not keep the amusement from his face as he tilted Moriarty's head further to the side. Moving with the gentile grace one usually reserves for children, John injected the serum just below his ear. Seconds later he was finished. He had enough time to step away from Moriarty to watch the change in his facial features, see them soften and see the pain leave his face. Nearly two full minutes passed. John found himself incapable of movement; something between terror and wariness warring in him as he waited for some sort of response. John then found himself bent over the nearest table, Moriarty's hands (surprisingly strong) wrapped around his throat and his windpipe slowly being crushed.

It was not the reaction he had expected.

"What. Did you. Just do. To me." John gasped, clutching at Moriarty's hands on his throat. His head was feeling light within seconds and his vision soon began to fade out. The hands at his throat relented after a moment and soon were removed altogether. John slid to the floor, coughing and choking and trying to reign in his desire to gut the man standing before him.

"It's gone."

"No," John managed. "No, it's NOT gone. What I gave you is a type of painkiller designed to-"

"So it's not gone."

"No. Not yet. Your body is weak, Moriarty. Very, very weak. It's been trying so hard to fight this thing for so long before it finally started to give in. If I hit you too hard with too much all at once…You might not make it." He stood, swaying on his feet before regaining his balance using the nearby lab table as a stabilizer. "I need to do some tests. Determine what your body can handle before creating anything strong enough to destroy the root cause." Silence in the lab while John tried to re-establish his equilibrium as he came down off his adrenaline rush and Moriarty stared unwaveringly at him.

"What was that. What did you inject in me, Johnny boy?" His voice was soft, his smile somehow gentle, terrifying and seductive all at once. The combination of the look with what just happened at John more than on edge.

"If I tell you you're not going to like it." His throat felt raw and he now sounded as tired as he felt. The man sighed, sauntering the short distance to where John stood. John was proud that he did not flinch when Moriarty raised his hand to him but could not help it when his hand settled gently on his cheek.

"Try me."

"Saliva." The word was out before he could even contemplate the consequences.

"…You injected…spit…into my body."

"In a sense," He said carefully.

"Whose saliva did you use?" The look on his face said it all and John knew there was no point in lying to him. He wondered if Moriarty had ever guessed what John was truly capable of before this moment.

"I…took a sample of my own saliva, watered it down and made it safe for your body."

"Why did you inject me?" John blinked, bewilderment evident on his face.

"I just explained-,"

"My headache is coming back, John." John's eyebrow furrowed; that should have lasted far longer than it should have. He mentally redid the math, ran through the calculations for the percentages of saliva versus-

And then Moriarty's tongue was in his mouth and his brain stopped working. Horror, revulsion, disgust; his mind ceased producing synonyms to properly describe what was happening. Without thinking he responded, violently, shoving the man away from him with enough force to throw him to the floor. He was wiping his mouth on his sleeve and trying not to dry heave; the taste of spearmint flavored Scope was lingering in his mouth and he was almost hoping that the laser sights trained on him would deliver his death quickly before he had time to remember what had just happened. On the floor, Moriarty was laughing, loudly, openly, wildly as he stood.

"Headache's just about gone now. And wasn't that less of a hassle?" His words sounded playful but his eyes, bright and shining and so awake, spoke of potential. John remained silent, wondering if the man's vision had cleared up, glaring silently at the maniac as he righted himself, straightening his suit jacket and grinning all the while.

"You should have kept the specifics quiet. I'm sure you're realizing that NOW, but really, John, why wouldn't you just think about that in the first place? I was going to just kill you when you solved my little problem. Now now, don't LOOK at me like that, I WAS going to kill you suggests the thought was in the PAST." He smiled, picking up the nearest thing on the table, which just so happened to be a flask, and swirled the liquid around inside the container.

"I was even thinking about torturing you to death!" He laughed and seemed almost surprised when John did not join in. "Oh come on, it's FUNNY, John! Clearly I've changed my mind. See, because now… Now I'm going to keep you around. It's not just your brain I'm excited over, John. It's your body. Your saliva literally has the ability to remedy a headache; what else are you capable of, hmm?" He had set the flask down in favor of rubbing his hands far too sinisterly together. His eyes focused once more on the doctor and purposefully he raked his gaze across John's body, smirking all the while.

"Pretty and smart with a cute trick up his sleeve… Yes, Sherlock was truly wasting his time with you." His saunter was, thankfully, taking him back to the door he'd entered through. John managed to keep his posture and stance strong and firm until Moriarty was gone. At which point his legs gave out and he slid to the floor, lips parted and eyes hazy. Torture? The psycho was going to TORTURE him to death? He'd believed that the end of his life MIGHT come when he solved the man's problem but…He was planning to TORTURE HIM TO DEATH?

John was no longer feeling so great. His stomach was on edge and his mind was whirring too fast to take any control over. Knowing that he was out of options for the day, knowing that he was no longer going to get anything finished, John metaphorically threw in the towel for the day. John was thinking that "exhaustion" didn't quite cover where he was.

OoOoOoO

"John. I'm going to remove my hand but I need you to remain quiet." He had been awake before Sherlock had even come close to touching him. John had smelled him nearly from the moment he'd entered the room. He had believed that he was hallucinating. Moriarty's moment in the lab earlier was still too fresh in his mind and, at this point, John had been giving up hope of ever seeing the light of day under his own volition. Feeling Sherlock's hand covering his mouth, trying to keep from startling him in the artificial night of the lab, brought about a sense of reality that little else could have achieved. Sherlock's eyes seemed to shine in the dim light and John knew part of his excitement was over finding John and for some strange reason this brought a feeling of warmth to the doctor.

Pushing aside his warm and fuzzy feelings, John managed a single nod, eyes locked on the detective's. Once Sherlock seemed satisfied that John would not leap from his bed and scream, he removed his hand and immediately started poking and prodding down first John's arms, then torso, then down his legs, stopping once he reached the attached monitor at his ankle. The detective's subsequent swear did little to boost John's positivity.

"Goddamn device doesn't even have an easily identifiable split where it should come apart; what the hell is this made of?" He hissed, fingers moving deftly over the device.

"Sherlock it doesn't matter; it's set to electrocute me if removed without the key."

"A minor inconvenience at best, John." John was only just able to stifle his snicker at Sherlock's matter of fact tone.

"I might be able to figure something out with some of my chemicals but I'll need a little time-,"

"I'm HURT, John." The sound of the door had gone unnoticed by both detective and doctor and it was only Moriarty's voice, ringing out amidst their hushed whispers, which alerted them to his presence. John froze, hackles rising and muscles tightening as adrenaline flooded his system in a violent rush.

"To think…after the moment we shared. And now you're trying to ESCAPE. I am just…at a loss, Johnny boy. Not for what to do, you understand, but as to how I should feel." The gun was in his hand and the shot fired before John could even begin to form an argument. Before he could even think to warn Sherlock. He was still sitting on the bed and Sherlock's hand was still on the bracelet and it was only because of this limited contact that John was able to catch the consulting detective before he hit the floor.

"SHERLOCK!" The word was forced free from John's mouth before he could stop them; his eyes, so quick, saw that Sherlock had taken the bullet in his shoulder.

"I'm alright John just hurts like…like…f-fire… It's like...," And then he was gone, caught in a seizure so severe that John could do little more than turn him on his side and tear his sheets, shoving the strip into his mouth in an attempt to keep the man from biting his own tongue off.

"Oops." Moriarty. John's eyes were blazing, fury and sheer hatred directed at the maniac standing just opposite the bed now.

"As you can see…you haven't got much time. Or, should I say, SHERLOCK doesn't have much time." Even in this moment John felt his cheeks grow hot as Moriarty mocked his fear.

"So I'll just say this as succinctly as possible. Plans have changed. Things have come up which were previously not concerns of mine. I am leaving. Now. And I am incapable at this time of taking you or anyone else with me. You are going to fix my little problem. Right here. Right now. If you refuse, I will use the remaining three bullets on that seizing creature you're clutching and I will record the whole thing so I can watch him die over and over and over again. If you fix my problem, and you fix it for good, I will leave and you may attempt whatever you wish on the man to try and save him. I will return for you, eventually, but your consulting detective will be safe." Moriarty pulled back the hammer of the revolver, his smile twisted and genuine in the dim lighting and said nothing else. There was no question, not even a moment of hesitation, in John's mind. He closed his eyes and allowed his synapses to fire towards the solution to the problem and, only thirty seconds after Sherlock had stopped twitching in his grasp, stood. He laid Sherlock as gently as he could on the floor, maneuvering him as quickly and as easily as possible, before turning back to the root of his problem. His mind had produced only one possible solution and it was, in all reality, horrific.

"Blood to blood would be quickest." He said, succinctly summing up what he felt to be his only option. "Based on the percentage of saliva in the previous solution I can estimate by sight how much of my blood you will need. I will withdraw it and you may store it for later use." His eyes flashed. " I warn you against dosing too quickly. With…" He paused, eyes flickering shut for a few seconds. "Three vials you should be set but you will want to take the first two in doses over the period of four days. Now get the fuck out of my way." John did not wait for Moriarty to move; he shoved past the man and moved to the nearest table. Seconds later, his arm still dripping from the needle, he had the vials and was once again brushing past the psychopath, shoving the vials into his hands as he walked.

"Mmm…Still warm." He did not turn, despite the low chuckle. He could see in his mind's eye all too well Moriarty brushing the vial against his cheek.

"Well this will have to do. I'll be seeing you again, Doctor Watson. So try not to be too lonely while I'm gone." The laser sights flashing across the Doctor's chest were entirely unnecessary and kept him only from reaching out to Sherlock for just long enough for Moriarty to leave the room.

The detective was no longer seizing and it seemed as though, judging by the state of his eyes (rolled nearly to the back of his head) and his lips (a delicate shade of blue) that he had fallen into something similar like a coma. His body was trembling, shaking as though he were in an advanced state of hypothermia, yet his temperature was dangerously high. There was no time for guesswork, no time to muck about with chemicals and possibilities. Blood. He'd given it to Moriarty believing only half-heartedly that it would work but… could it? Were he capable of seeing himself he might be surprised to see him making a face that Sherlock would recognize; his eyes were half-lidded, lips parted just slightly as his gaze flickered silently beneath his lids as he searched for options the fastest way he knew how. John's Library, a trick he had learned as a child from a mentor early in his life (a similarity to the fictional Hannibal Lector always looming with its use), housed the most extensive medical knowledge known to humankind. Of course he had other bits and bobs hiding in every nook and cranny but it was with the world of medicine he had originally been obsessed with and which had soon overtaken the majority of his life.

The trip through his Library was harrowing, exhausting and utterly perfect. Time spent away from the lab had pushed many a memory from his mind and the early experiments he'd performed on himself had been forgotten until that moment. Without a shadow of a doubt that blood would help Moriarty. Help, not solve the overwhelming issue, and likely give him another year or two to live. The problem of course was that the blood, the substance, needed to be fresh. Away from John, whose brain and heart were in essence the battery that fueled the regenerative properties of his blood, the blood would become next to useless. Good only for relieving a tension headache, at best.

Sherlock was no longer moving in any sense of the word. His skin was sallow, pale and clammy to the touch. John could literally see the few moments during which he might save the man slipping from his fingers.

He worked quickly as he tore Sherlock's coat from him, followed by his jacket and then shirt. The wound looked gangrenous; it was seeping and smelled as close to death as John felt a smell could be. There was no time. A pair of tweezers remedied the bullet itself, still lodged in the muscle of Sherlock's shoulder. He fumbled for the knife he'd used only moments earlier to rip Sherlock's clothes and sliced through the freshly knit skin of his palm. It became evident almost immediately that he was right. The smell receded as the blood dripped into the wound and after a moment the color started a slow return to normal. It was a slow process, John having to re-open his wound, but there was little else he could do in those first moments, too terrified of losing him to find a needle.

Failure was not an option.

OoOoOoO

Time did that strange thing it seemed to do around John. He remembered nodding off, his still seeping hand pressed firmly against Sherlock's wound. He remembered removing the bullet; the heat coming from it had been all at once fascinating and horrifying. He remembered Mycroft. Mycroft and his men, storming the metaphorical castle and trying to tear Sherlock away from him; he remembered screaming, his own voice, until Mycroft would stop and listen. The world continued to blur and they were moving, John still slicing his hand, feeling sick for the first time since medical school, since creating what now flowed through his veins as blood, and touching his weary and worn flesh to that of Sherlock's wound.

And then…home. Initially they had struck out for the hospital, but assured by John that they would undoubtedly kill Sherlock, they had gone to John's preferred place of residence. Aided by Mycroft personally, the pair managed to haul the still unconscious consulting detective up the stairs and into the flat. Despite John's lame attempts to assure the elder Holmes that everything was perfectly alright and that additional protection was not needed, 221B Baker Street was outfitted with four personnel authorized to do "whatever necessary" to keep the two safe. It did not take much convincing for the men to remain outside of the flat proper; John's constant masochistic medicinal treatments were both violent and messy, not to mention gruesome, and the bodyguards had not put up much of a fight to remain inside. It wasn't until they had let them alone that John had finally removed the set of needles he had absconded with; cutting his hand was inefficient and really he'd only continued to do so to further dissuade extra company. Aided by the angel who was Mrs. Hudson, John set up a transfusion table using his own squirreled away supplies. Injecting Sherlock with his blood had gotten him out of the woods but without removing the diseased blood entirely from his system, Sherlock would not stand a chance. Only John's body could handle the intake of the dead blood and despite the horrendous pain it caused him, he was only too happy to oblige.

Mycroft's gaze was harsh and hawk-like; there would be questions to answer once Sherlock was out of the woods and, considering how easily Moriarty had ransacked his records, he doubted there would be much he could do to conceal his past. Eventually he, too, left them alone, shooed away by the godsend that was Mrs. Hudson in all of her glory. She, too, had questions (John could see them dancing in her eyes) but she kept them at bay, doing little more than offering what aide she could despite how uncomfortable she appeared to be.

Eventually Sherlock became stable enough for John to rest and, comforted by Mrs. Hudson and her attentive and protective stance, he trudged the stairs to his room. He was absolutely certain that the only reason he was not suffering from blood loss or from the RBC-2 was his body's regenerative abilities forcing the creation of new blood almost as quickly as he had been using it. Removing his clothing was too arduous a task for him to take on (he continued to be proud that he had not crawled his way upstairs) and caring little more for the state of his sheets than for the state of his mind, John passed out atop his covers.

OoOoOoO

He had no idea how much time had passed when something disturbed his sleep. The light outside had changed from the broad daylight rescue earlier in the day and it was now solidly evening. Something was wrong. He'd been very strict in informing Mrs. Hudson that he was to be awoken in a few hours, or sooner should Sherlock take a turn for the worse, but he had requested that she knock on his door before entering. Movement, the shifting of fabric and the careful footsteps of someone navigating an unfamiliar room in the dark, indicated that either she had not followed his instruction or…

Or someone else was in the room with him.

Adrenaline, now an old friend, flooded his system and laying there he tensed, muscles ready to spring into action.

"S'alright." Came a soft murmur, followed by the smell that had first awoken him in the lab. Still, the tension would not leave him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was because Sherlock and his bedroom were two things, when combined, which produced that strange feeling he'd been struggling with earlier this year. Some curious amalgamation of all things being right and all things being wrong. On the surface, John could not help but think this was another trick. He would open his eyes and he would be back in that lab and Moriarty would be leaning over him, eyes bright and smile wide.

Just beside him the mattress depressed, the weight of another human being creaking the old springs and pulling him back from his lucid nightmare. There was a hand at his back, applying just enough pressure as to be reassuring.

"John." The man in questioned paused only momentarily before shifting his position, turning just slightly so that he was facing both his door and the man on his bed. He stomach was tied in knots; his every inch of attention seemed drawn to Sherlock's hand at his back and suddenly he wished the man would just stay there forever. With him. In the dark.

"I knew, you know." Despite his exhaustion John could not help his flinch away from Sherlock; he pushed himself up with his hands and arms, feeling far too defensive.

"The hell does that mean?" John croaked.

"I…have known who you are for quite some time. Mycroft has had his suspicions but, until now, he had thought them to be unfounded. If there had been even a shadow of a doubt, which of course there hadn't been, they would have been dispelled at the pool."

"If…If you knew, Sherlock, why wouldn't you… Why did you…," He struggled, unable to fully verbalize his anxiety. He knew? How much did he know? How much would he WANT to know? Would things change now?

"It's alright, John." The feeling of Sherlock's hand against his cheek, cradling his face, thumb lightly against his mouth, was enough to shut his mind down. His thoughts stuttered to a halt and he was only aware of himself and of the man sitting across from him. Of the man who was leaning forward. Of the man who was pressing his forehead against his own. Sherlock's eyes were closed and John desperately wished he would open them.

"You have the most…amazing grasp on the people around you, yet you have no idea what's going on in your own head, do you? You're worse than me, you know. I don't care but I manage to not care on a wide scale level. You care so much, too much, for everyone else but keep none of it for yourself." Hearing such a succinct description of himself from someone so cut off from the world around him was a bit dizzying. "It's…pretty stupid for someone as intelligent as you." Dumbfounded, the doctor could do little more than sit and breathe and try not to explode.

"Aren't you…going to ask me… About Moriarty?" John breathed, finally managing to say something.

"Mmm… There'll be time for that. For all of that. Later." The gap closed; Sherlock's lips were on his own. Everything fell away, including whatever resolves he'd been grasping on to, and suddenly everything was right in the world.

Epilogue

"How long?"

"Hmmm?"

"Come on, Sherlock, how long have you known? About me, I mean. You've never SAID anything and you just treated me…the same." The shifting of fabric; heat at his back and an arm over his chest, pulling him closer to the origin of said heat. Soft breath against his neck and lips pressed oh so gently at the base of his neck and what was it that he had been saying? A moan slipped past John's lips, exacerbated by the rogue hand now wandering south.

"Stop; I'm trying to talk to you-,"

"Do you REALLY want me to stop? You seem to be enjoying this."

"What about Moriarty, ahh…," John's attention was sufficiently re-routed and, for quite some time, the only sounds coming from his room were low moans and contented sighs. Days had passed since John had been recovered and, aside from a few phone calls and the strict medical attention John insisted Sherlock receive, the two had not left each other's side. It was as though a floodgate had been open the moment Sherlock had finally reached out to him. As…embarrassing as it was to admit, the consulting detective had been right. John had been neglecting himself in more ways than one. He had taken on the world, allowing its' weight to lay directly on his shoulders. He had not even realized how lonely he had been.

John had also come clean to Sherlock about the degenerative eye disease. Sherlock had been surprisingly receptive and, when John commented on this, had received only a slight smirk and the reassurance that Sherlock was not in fact worried, despite the fact that John's blood had only just halted its' progress. When pressed further Sherlock stated that he, John, would fix his problem and to get back in bed because the heat was off and he was cold.

Mycroft had, eventually, gotten through despite Sherlock's unwillingness to respond to the phone calls and black limos. With Sherlock lying on the couch and John poised on the easy chair, Mycroft had chosen to stand, hovering over the two with a look that showed his awareness of ALL situations and his utter lack of interest in it all.

"So."

"So."

"Oh come off it, Mycroft, you had something to do with Moriarty's disappearance, didn't you?" The subsequent smile told John all he needed to know and yet, somehow, this did not upset the doctor. Instead he found himself relaxing; knowing that the brothers had come together to keep him from Moriarty's creepy clutches was solidifying. He meant something to someone somewhere. The thought was not only grounding but, oddly, comforting. Like realizing just what he had been missing in the solidarity of his life.

"Let's just say that… Moriarty's network has been uprooted and many a man rerouted. We have our eyes on him and will until he comes back to London."

"How much do you know, Mycroft?" Silence. The brothers shared a look that left a smile curling across John's face. He remained as silent as the room, however, until Mycroft finally sighed a response.

"We know it has something to do with a shortened life expectancy; otherwise any other doctor or highly trained medical professional would have sufficed. He would not have needed you enough to find you." John's smile curled into something like a smirk; for the first time he accepted his superiority in this regard. Just as clearly as he could see that Mycroft had recently, as in that same day, had some pretty successful and amazing sex and was also developing an allergy to dust, John could see that they could NOT see.

"A tumor." The brothers simultaneously stiffened and the subsequent silence was pregnant and dark with their unanswered questions.

"Inoperable, I assume." Mycroft finally managed.

"Of course; size of a softball and malignant. He'd been given six months, which was inaccurate. He refused treatment and…he would have been dead within two and a half at best."

"WOULD have."

"Yeah, Sherlock. Would have. He… He had some of my blood. I gave it to him under some extreme duress."

"So, John. Does that mean he's-,"

"No. No, Mycroft, he's going to die if he doesn't come back for me. My blood is only good fresh. The potency of it is reduced to nothing after only a few hours. So he's…he's going to…," It was difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat As hard as he had tried to put the experience onto a dark shelf in his Library he seemed incapable of forgetting it. He could still feel the man's mouth on his own, his hands on his arms and he could see the violence in his body and John was just as incapable of putting any of it aside. He felt more than saw Sherlock's eyes on him and a sense of something close to calm washed over him.

"We have more surveillance on both of you than ever before and we are keeping close watch on Moriarty's movements. The moment he steps back on English soil…we'll know." John did not state that they should have known the moment he had been kidnapped but he was thinking it. Loudly.

"Yes, yes Mycroft. Now if you'll excuse us, we have a case to solve, so…," Still facing the couch, Sherlock was now waving Mycroft from the room. With little more than a curt nod and the promise that he would be in touch, Mycroft saw himself out. John's head was supported in his hands, shoulders hunched and mind completely mired in thoughts he wished he were not thinking. Arms wrapping around his neck, a face pressing gently into the side of his neck and a cheek against his cheek… Tension flowing freely from his shoulders as Sherlock's scent invaded his senses.

"You're alright, John. You're here. With me. You're alright."

"You know… my nightmares… They're not… They're not getting any better. And he… he said he'd come back. For me. Are you sure you want-?" But then the man's lips were somehow on his own and the talking, for now, was finished.


End file.
